


Indefinite Leave To Remain

by KaraRenee



Series: Red Letter Day [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Happy Valley, Happy Valley Netflix, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Original Character(s), Parentlock, Smoking Goat, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8507341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaraRenee/pseuds/KaraRenee
Summary: John and Sherlock have returned from their post-holiday visit to John's parents, where his coming out was not well received.  Life moves on at Baker Street.  How does a couple juggle parenting, work, romance, and sex with a new serial killer on the loose?If you did not read Ships, you may want to go back and read it.  It became the first chapter of the series Red Letter Day.  It introduces the reader to my OC's - John's parents - Hamish and Margaret Watson.  Margaret will appear later in this story and in the series as a recurring minor character.





	1. Indefinite Leave To Remain

“You never asked, you know.”

 

John placed a mug of tea on the table in front of Sherlock, and a sippy cup on the tray of Olivia’s high chair. 

 

Sherlock lowered his newspaper.  He watched his partner as he put bread in the toaster and started to crack eggs over the hot pan. 

 

“I never asked you what, John?”

 

“To marry you.”  He sprinkled a bit of dried dill over the sizzling eggs.

 

One dark eyebrow arched quizzically.  “Are you sure?”

 

“Daddy, toast?”  Olivia reached across the tray of her chair and made grabbing motions with her tiny fist.

 

“Just a minute, poppet.  Would you like jam on it?”

 

“Yes please, daddy.”

 

John beamed at his little girl. “Such a polite little lady.  Spending time with Nanny Martha is good for you.” 

 

“Why doesn’t she call her Mrs. Hudson like the rest of us?”

 

“That would be a bit awkward, Sherlock.  Mrs. Hudson is like a grandmother to Olivia.  She can’t go around calling her Mrs. Hudson.  Besides, she likes being Nanny Martha.”

 

“Love Nanny!” The child chirped happily.

 

Sherlock tipped his head slightly to the left as he kept his eyes on John. “I remember asking you to marry me.”

 

“No, Sherlock.  You didn’t ask me.  You said ‘We should do that marriage thing that’s legal now’ while we were subduing a suspect.”

 

A wicked grin spread across Sherlock’s face.  “Ah, yes.  The ‘Jack the Raper’ case.  Serial rapist with a penchant for school girls.  He deserved that … subduing.”  

 

“Maybe not the broken leg, though,” John chuckled as he flipped the egg.

 

“Well, that  _ may _ have been excessive.  But you broke his nose beautifully, John.”

 

He stood next to Sherlock’s chair and placed a plate of toast and egg on the table.  “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Holmes?”

 

He slid his right hand up the back of John’s leg and grabbed his arse. “Oh yes, Dr. Watson, I am.” 

 

John leaned forward to place a kiss upon his lover’s lips.

 

“Daddy!  Toast!” 

 

“Here you are, love,” he laid out neatly cut squares of toast covered in a thin layer of currant jam.  

 

“Thank you, daddy,” she stuffed a bit of jammy toast into her mouth. “Kiss, too?” She presented her puckered, sticky mouth.  

 

John chuckled softly and kissed her sticky lips.  “Mmmm, lovely jam.”

 

Olivia giggled.

 

“That is disgusting, John.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

 

“Amusing, coming from you, considering where my mouth was on your body last night.” John smirked.

 

Sherlock blushed and lifted the newspaper to cover his face. 

 

“You didn’t complain when I kissed you after that, either.”  John sat down across from Olivia. “Papa is cute when he blushes.”

 

“Don’t talk about sex in front of the baby,” Sherlock hissed.

 

John rolled his eyes. 

 

Sherlock’s phone beeped. 

 

“It’s Lestrade,” his tone was bored. A few seconds of silence passed, punctuated by the repeated beeps of more texts and Olivia’s noises as she chewed her toast. He gave a one sided grin to his phone screen.  “He’s got a murder for me.”

 

“How nice,” John mumbled with a mouth full of egg.

 

“Why don’t you ever give me such nice presents, John?”

 

He shook his head with a grin.  He leaned forward to wipe Olivia’s nose with a napkin.  “I’m sorry.  But you can either have me give you,” he lowered his voice, “blow jobs or murder people.  I can’t do _ both _ .” 

 

“John!”

 

“Are you going?”  He made his eyes wide as he smiled sweetly, turning his on his full charm.  Dimples curled in the lines around his mouth.

 

“As soon as you’re ready.”

 

“I can’t today, Sherlock.  After breakfast Olivia goes to Mrs. Hudson while I cover a shift at the clinic.”

 

“But I need you, John.” 

 

“You go to the scene and text me all about it.  I’m only working until two.  Clinic closes early today.  I’m meeting your parents at the station near the clinic.  Molly is babysitting tonight.  We are going to the Smoking Goat with your parents tonight at 7. Don’t forget,” John stood, chair legs scraping across the lino.  He planted a kiss on Sherlock’s head as he cleared the empty breakfast plates. 

 

“I’ll get the waterfall beef and Som Tam Taeng.”

 

“Of course you will,” John smirked.  “You always do.”

 

“Are you saying I’m predictable, John?”

 

“Are you letting a perfectly good dead body go cold to have a domestic with me?” His tone was playful and he winked at Olivia. She giggled.

 

Sherlock wanted to be on the case more than he wanted to quibble over his predictable dinner preferences with his partner.  He pushed his chair back and kissed Olivia’s sticky cheek.  

 

“Mmph,” she reached her chubby little arms up. “Up, Papa?”

 

“Daddy will get you, love.  Papa has to go solve crimes for Uncle Graham.”

 

“Greg.  Uncle Greg,” John corrected.

 

“Don’t be tiresome, John. I am joking.”

 

“Daddy! Up!”

 

John lifted their daughter from her high chair and held her on his hip, wet flannel in his hand. 

 

“Sherlock Holmes with a sense of humor?  Will miracles never cease?” He wiped the crumbs and jam from Olivia’s face and hands. 

 

“Cooee, it’s only me, dears,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice called out from the sitting room.

 

“Nanny!” Olivia squirmed until John let her down.  

 

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s waist to draw him in for a kiss.  “Have a good day, doctor.”  

 

“Solve me a murder, detective,” John playfully bit Sherlock’s chin with a smile. 

 

“Boys, I’m going to take Olivia downstairs now. We’re going to make biscuits for my bridge club.” Mrs. Hudson’s face appeared around the corner of the kitchen. 

 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson.  I should be back around 2:30. Sherlock’s just off to meet Greg at a crime scene.”

 

“Oh, how exciting. You have fun, Sherlock dear.” She squeezed his forearm.

 

Mrs. Hudson and Olivia headed down the stairs.  Olivia chattered away about the toast she had for breakfast.  Every other step was punctuated with “Isn’t that nice, poppet?”.

 

Sherlock looked baffled.  “Why would she say that?”

 

“She’s afraid talking about murder and crime scenes will have a negative impact on Olivia.  So she’s decided to act cheerful when we speak about it.” John raised his eyebrows in amusement.

 

“Having a child has not only changed our relationship, it’s changed everyone around us,” Sherlock furrowed his brow.

 

“For the better, in my opinion.  Right, I’m off.  Love you,” John headed towards the door, pulling his jacket from the hook as he went. 

 

Sherlock slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and fondled the velvet box.  The black fabric and thin line of gold coloured trim were warm from being next to his body.  He sighed.  “Love you, too,” he murmured to himself.

 

***

 

Lestrade stood outside the house, one foot pressed into the brick wall, cooling cup of coffee in his hand.  The morning had been damp, and the early summer sun was turning the day humid.  His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his wrists.  He nodded to the photographer as she walked past him.

 

“Oi, Sherlock,” he nodded when he saw the tall man emerge from a cab.

 

“Morning, Lestrade.  Who’s inside?”

 

“Miller and Sharma.”

 

“Is it my birthday?  No Anderson?  No Donovan?”  He raised one eyebrow.  “I must have been a very good boy.”

 

Greg shook his head and laughed under his breath.

 

“Take me to the body,” Sherlock looked around.  The brick and white stucco facade of the row of flats looked serene.  There was some scaffolding on the roof of the stoop two doors down.  Clearly contractors had been scraping old paint and had to stop to have rotten wood replaced.  Sinclair Gardens was a nice area in Shepherd’s Bush. The four storey row of flats on this street were trimmed in white and each seemed to have lace sheers or mini blinds in their windows. 

 

The flat was on the third floor.  Miller, a wiry, dark skinned young man with a notepad, was on the first landing questioning the resident.  The light glared off his clean shaven head as he nodded to each response the middle aged woman gave him. She was dressed for work in a smart charcoal pantsuit, clearly not expecting to be waylaid by a murder investigation. 

 

“Miller,” Lestrade nodded as they passed.

 

“D.I.,” he nodded back.  “Holmes,” he inclined his head.  The men were of equal height.  Sherlock had seen Miller at the Yard, but they had not worked on a case together before.  Miller had a reputation of near scientific scrutiny to details. Sherlock hoped his reputation was well deserved. 

 

“Residents in the second floor flat are in Ibiza on holiday.  We’re tracking them down now and having the Ibiza police bring them in for some questions. But they’ve been gone for nearly a fortnight, so we aren’t holding out hope for much information,” Greg said as they climbed the stairs two at a time.

 

“And the fourth floor resident?”  Sherlock swept up the stairs ahead of Lestrade.

 

“Questioned and gone to work.  We have his information.”

 

The flat was neat and compact.  White walls were given a pop of colour with canvases of mass produced floral prints.  The cushions on the beige sofa were orange and blue and green; colours that coordinated with the wall art. The two windows that faced the street had lace sheers and orange and blue striped drapes. Along the windowsill was an array of brightly coloured tumbled stones and faceted crystals.  A Tibetan singing bowl, an incense burner in the shape of Ganesh, and a large quartz crystal sat on the coffee table. A pink yoga mat was rolled and stored upright in the corner.

 

“New age yoga instructor?”

 

“How did you know?” Sharma was standing in the kitchenette. 

 

“Obvious.  Am I correct?”

 

“Yes,” she clipped her word.  Her dark hair was swept back in a ponytail that hung to her mid back. “Victim is Gemma Wintersmith, thirty four, single.  Worked as a nurse at Hammersmith Hospital in the haematology department.  She was also a yoga instructor at Balanced on Uxbridge Road. No significant other, no pets. Parents have been notified.  Body is in the bedroom.”

 

Sherlock turned on his heel, and pushed his way past the properly suited up officers as they scoured the walls and floors for evidence.  

 

The victim was laid out on top of her duvet.  She was naked, displayed like the Vitruvian Man.  Her ash blonde hair was a halo around her head.  Her face was peaceful; the features somewhere between pleasure and sleep.  It was a sharp contrast to the lower half of her body. 

 

Sherlock stepped closer. 

 

The skin of her abdomen had been cut out in a rectangular shape, and laid on the bed beside her, skin side up.  The glint of a red rhinestone belly button ring caught in the flash of the photographer’s bulb. At her other side was a carefully extracted pile of intestine, bladder and uterus and kidneys.  The pastel yellow duvet was soaked through with blood.

 

“Where are her ovaries?”

 

Every head in the room turned to him. 

 

“What?”  Lestrade stood next to him.  

 

“Look at that pile,” Sherlock pointed towards the congealing mass of browns and greys.  “And look in  her abdomen.  Her ovaries are missing.”

 

“So is her tailbone,” Greg handed his now empty cup to an officer who was leaving the room.

 

“The coccyx is missing as well?” Sherlock leaned forward on the balls of his feet.  He could see that all muscles and fascia had been pulled back from the sacrum and the coccyx had been cut away.

 

“Probably snapped off with a bolt cutter,” Greg covered his nose with the back of his hand.  

 

“I need her packed up carefully and sent to Bart’s,” Sherlock had his phone in his hand.  “I want Molly on this.  I need all of her body parts sent over as well.  Were there any tools left behind?”

 

“No weapons or surgical tools at all,” Greg replied.   
  


Sherlock squinted at the kidneys.  “Something’s missing.  You,” he beckoned the photographer. “Get lots of close ups of the kidneys.  I see scalpel marks there.  What about drugs?  Needles?  Pills?”

 

“Glass of wine on the bedside table is being tested for Rohypnol.”

 

“What about the IV needle?”

 

“What IV needle?”

 

Sherlock dropped to his haunches to examine her left foot.  “The one that was here in her foot.” Three drops of blood were dried on her pale skin.

 

“Shit. Alright, get photos of that as well,” Lestrade addressed the photographer.

 

Sherlock and Greg walked back to the sitting room.  “She had a lover.  Do you have CCTV footage of her from last night?”

 

“How do you know this was done by a lover?” Sharma’s voice rose above the shuffling and snapping noises of the investigation. 

 

“She was in the middle of having cunilingus performed on her when the drugs kicked in.  Her face is stuck somewhere between ecstasy and sleep.  Her legs are draped over the end of the bed, and spread apart. Her genitalia is clearly in a state of arousal. And the way her hair is splayed over the duvet, indicates a high level of…” he looked at his phone, “excitement.”  Sherlock furiously typed a message.  “I’ll have Molly look for Rohypnol and whatever was in that IV.  She’ll keep me updated.  I need to prepare a proposal.” 

 

Lestrade cocked his head to the side. “Proposing to John?  About time you made an honest man out of him.”

 

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. “Indeed.  Long overdue.” 

 

***

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” his mother tutted.  “Put that bloody phone away.  We’re having dinner.” 

 

Sherlock ignored her and scrolled through the photos Molly sent.  John leaned over to have a look.

 

“Oh, not you too, John.” 

 

“The adrenal glands are missing,” John’s cheek was resting against Sherlock’s shoulder in order to get a better look at the screen.  

 

“That is what Molly said,” Sherlock gently pressed his lips against John’s temple.

 

“So the murderer took her adrenal glands, her ovaries and her coccyx?”  John straightened in his chair.  “That’s very specific.”

 

“Molly said she found a large tumbled stone in the abdominal cavity.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,that isn’t appropriate dinner conversation,” Lydia whispered.

 

“A stone?  What, like a kidney stone?”  John enlarged the photo with a swipe of his finger and thumb.

 

“No. She said a tumbled red jasper.”

 

“You said the victim was a yoga instructor right?  She had crystals around her flat?”  John leaned back.

 

“Mmmm…” Sherlock mumbled.  “But they were all along the windowsills or in little dishes.  Not where one would fall into the place where her organs had been.”

 

“Sherlock,” Lydia hissed.  “Put that away.  You can solve your little mysteries after dinner.”

 

“Don’t give the boys too much grief, Lydia,” Gregory patted her hand.  “It’s their version of romance.”  Mr. Holmes gave her hand a little squeeze.  “Like when you used to give me those equations or graphs and they spelled out ‘love’.” 

 

“Yes, but math is sexy. They’re looking at body parts.”

 

“To each their own, my dear.” 

 

John smiled at Sherlock’s parents.  Three years ago when he first met them he could not figure out how such kind and loving people produced a couple of highly intellectual, emotionally stunted sociopaths.  Now that he shared his life, bed and love with one of their sons, he knew how strongly they had taught their children to love. 

 

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket. His fingers brushed against the velvet box.  His chest tightened.  When?  He gave the box a squeeze.  

 

“How is the waterfall beef tonight?” John noticed his partner had hardly touched his dinner. 

 

“Fine.”

 

“You have hardly tasted it, Sherlock,” his mother chided.  “Do you want a bite of my scallops?” 

 

“No, mother.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m just preoccupied with the case.”  He looked at John; relaxed, smiling John totally at ease with having dinner with his parents, pleased to be out having a nice dinner, knowing their little girl was being taken care of by one of their most trusted friends. 

 

John met his gaze.  He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes asking ‘What is it? Are you okay?’, while a ghost of a contented smile teased the corners of his mouth.

 

He returned the hint of a smile and took a bite of his dinner. 

 

***

Outside the Smoking Goat the evening was cool. The humidity of the morning was swept away with winds that came in with the tide. The city was lively.  Gregory offered his wife his arm.  Lydia slipped her arm through his. He waited patiently as she fussed with her handbag so she could refresh her lipstick. Gregory held her compact while she applied the colour. John smiled as he watched them.  His own parents had never been that affectionate towards one another.  He presumed the only times Hamish Watson had been tender towards Margaret Watson were on their wedding night and the times he and his sister were conceived.  

 

Sherlock observed.  Seeing his parents in love made John happy.  Seeing John happy made Sherlock happy.  He stood beside him, bent his left arm and coughed slightly.  John looked up at his face, then down at his elbow. He smiled from his lips to his eyes. 

 

“You don’t have to,” he whispered.

 

“No,” he looked down into those blue eyes and kind smile.  “I do not  _ have  _ to. But I am proud you are my partner and I would like to escort you home, Doctor Watson.”

 

“That is very romantic of you, Sherlock.”  John blushed as he took his arm.

 

Mrs. Holmes sighed at the sight.  “One day I’d like to see you two like this walking down the aisle.”

 

Sherlock went pink.

 

John’s back went rigid.

 

Mr. Holmes tutted.  “Leave the boys alone, Lydia.  They seem happy enough in their arrangement.”

 

“Olivia’s parents should be married.”

 

“That is oddly old fashioned of you, Lydia,” John laughed. 

 

“Well, I can keep up with the times and still be a hopeless romantic.” 

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock mumbled.

 

John pressed his elbow into Sherlock’s ribs, a warning to behave and not ruin their lovely evening. 

 

The cab dropped Mr. and Mrs. Holmes at their hotel.  Sherlock stayed in the car while John stepped out to shake Gregory’s hand and give Lydia a peck on the cheek. 

 

“I still don’t know how or why you put up with my boy, but I am certainly glad you do, John.”  Lydia tried to rub the lipstick print off his cheek with her thumb. “We’ll see you in the morning.  We’ve a lovely day planned with Olivia.”

 

“She’s looking forward to it.  Goodnight.” John watched them walk into the hotel before getting back into the cab. 

 

“They like you very much, John.” his voice was low and warm.

 

“They are good people, your parents.  I like them, too.” He gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and gave the driver their address. 

 

The ride back to Baker Street was comfortably quiet.  Sherlock’s right hand played with John’s left, fingers slowly caressing.  He made circles around the base of John’s ring finger.  He pressed his left arm against his jacket pocket, to reassure himself that the little black box was still there. He had made sure the song Molly sent him was cued up to play on his music app before they left the restaurant.  

 

Molly was sitting on the sofa, one leg tucked under her, reading a battered paperback.  

 

“How was she tonight?”  

 

“She was an angel, like always.  You’ve a brilliant little girl, you know.”

 

John looked down at the pile of pictures on the coffee table.  Molly had been teaching Olivia her colours.  One picture was of the word ‘red’ written in different shades, with pictures of apples and a robin; another was of the word ‘pink’ with pictures of hearts and flowers.  Molly had encouraged Olivia to scribble and blend every shade of each colour.  John picked up one of the red pictures.  

 

“Did she write this?” 

 

“Oh yeah, she wanted me to teach her how to write the words.  So we practiced,” Molly leaned over the page. “Her r’s are good.  But that e is a bit wobbly.”  

 

“What’s this bit?” John pointed to a deep maroon scribble.

 

“Blood.  She wanted to know all the things that are red.”

 

John grinned. “That’s our girl.”

 

Sherlock picked up a drawing of nine stick figures under a rainbow and studied it critically.  “Is this supposed to be us?” 

 

“Oh, yes,” Molly said nervously.  “Olivia wanted us to draw a picture of her family.  So that’s you and John holding her hands.  And that’s me and Mrs. Hudson and your parents and Mycroft and Greg.”

 

“Why is there a giant rainbow over us?  Is it because we’re gay?”

 

Molly and John rolled their eyes.  

 

“Rainbows aren’t just for homosexuals, Sherlock. They are symbols of hope and joy.”

 

“We read a story last time I babysat about leprechauns and finding gold at the end of a rainbow.”  Molly pointed to the bottom left corner of the paper. “See the pot of gold?”  

 

Sherlock still eyed the drawing skeptically. John hugged Molly.  “It’s lovely.  A drawing of our whole family.  Thank  you, Molly.”  

 

Sherlock stood motionless, eyes riveted to the drawing. Family.

 

Molly and John looked at each other and shrugged.  

 

“I’ll just be going, then.  Sherlock, I’ll have the blood results on Gemma Wintersmith on Monday.” 

 

“Mmm.”

 

John walked Molly to the door.  He leaned against it, and ran a hand over his short greying blonde hair. “You can’t get angry about things like rainbows, Sherlock. We’re gay and we have a little girl. Little girls sometimes like rainbows and ponies and …”

 

Music was suddenly playing; a horn intro, some piano. Sherlock had the drawing in one hand and his phone in the other, thumb hovering over the open music app.  

 

“ _ I was lost for so long, feels like it’s taken half my life to find where I belong.  Seeing you here, you’re my nation, this is my application, give me hope, keep me sane, give me indefinate leave to remain.” _

 

“Is that the Pet Shop Boys?” John whispered. 

 

Sherlock nodded.  

 

_ “All the worlds that I saw, I went so far away and still wanted you more.  It may sound superficial _

_ but can we make it official? Give me hope, Keep me sane, Give me indefinite leave to remain.” _

 

John swallowed hard.  He felt tears rising from his belly, gripping his chest, filling his eyes.

 

Sherlock dropped to one knee.

 

_ “Tell me where I stand, What do you envision? One way or another,  Give me your decision now.” _

 

He pulled the black velvet box from his pocket

 

_ “Is it time to proceed? Will you give me a chance and the status I need?” _

 

Sherlock opened the box.  Nestled inside was a platinum band. 

 

His voice was tight and low, “John, when I look at you, I see my home, my family.  I am beyond happy.  I am content. There isn’t a more powerful or appropriate word. I am content.  With you, no matter where we are, I’m home.  I never wanted to be a father.  But having Olivia, sharing parenting with you, has made me a better man.  And I’d like you to, as the song says, accept this ring as my application.  I’d like it very much if you’d marry me, John Watson.”

 

The long, pale fingers shook as he pulled the band from the box and held it out.  

 

John fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.  

 

John held out his trembling left hand. Sherlock slipped the band over his knuckle.  

 

“Is… is that a fingerprint?” 

 

“Mine, actually.  I didn’t want to give you a diamond. Trite.  Predictable.  Heteronormative. The jeweler I went to took an impression of my left ring finger print.”

 

“It’s perfect,” John whispered.

 

“Will you marry me, John?” 

 

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes,” he wiped tears from his cheeks. “I’ll marry you.”  John cupped Sherlock’s face in his trembling hands.

 

“About bloody time,” Lestrade said behind them.

 

Still kneeling on the floor, they turned to see Lestrade, Molly, Lydia and Gregory in the open door. 

 

“It wasn’t locked,” said Molly.

 

“I met her on the street,” said Lestrade.

 

“We left our hotel room key here earlier,” said Lydia.  

 

“Didn’t realize it until after we had a drink at the hotel bar,” Gregory said.  “Your mother likes a nightcap.”

 

“I forgot my flat keys,” Molly pointed to the ring of keys on the coffee table half hidden by the drawings. 

 

“I was at Speedy’s getting a sarnie and coffee when I saw Molly and your parents, so I just…”

 

Lydia began to cry.  Gregory put his arm around her. 

 

“It’s about time you made an honest man out of him, Sherlock,.” His mother sobbed.

 

Molly handed her a tissue.  She blew her nose loudly.

 

“That was a beautiful proposal, Sherlock.  Really well done, mate.” Lestrade gave him a thumbs up.

 

“How long have you all been standing there?” Sherlock stood, then reached down to help John up.

 

“Long enough,” Lydia smiled.

 

“Since the first verse,” Molly grinned sheepishly.  “Really glad you used that song. Perfect really.”

 

“Right,” John tugged the bottom of his shirt and squared his shoulders.  “If you would all take your keys, I’ll say goodnight.  I’ve just been proposed to, and you lot are ruining a perfectly romantic moment.”

 

Lydia snatched the hotel room key from the bookcase next to the door.  Molly awkwardly swooped towards the coffee table for her keys.  Lestrade grinned and nodded at the newly engaged couple.  Mr. Holmes stepped forward to shake their hands. 

 

“Congratulations, boys.  Don’t forget to tell Mrs. Hudson first thing in the morning. She’ll be livid if she finds out she’s the last to know.” 

“What about Mycroft?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

 

“He probably knows already.  I’m sure he’s bugged the flat again since the last sweep I made,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

 

“Right,” John nodded.  “Everyone out,” he ushered them all towards the stairs.

 

Lydia took John’s chin in her hand. “I’m so pleased, John.”

 

“Out, mother!” Sherlock placed his hand on her shoulder and spun her around.  He leaned against the closed door, turned the deadbolt, and slid the chain into place.

 

John’s hands slid up Sherlock’s sides, tugging the silk shirt loose from his trousers. He pressed his face into his fiance’s back, breathed in the scent of him, as his hands traced ribs and pecs and nipples. Sherlock took John’s left hand and stroked the platinum band. 

 

“I’d like to take my future husband to bed, Doctor Watson.”

  
“He’d like that very much, Mr. Holmes,” 


	2. To Be Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post engagement, parenting and a serial killer. 
> 
> Theme song while I was writing - Hozier's "To Be Alone"

Sherlock lay on his side.  Beside him John and Olivia slept soundly.  The red squared numbers on the dresser shimmered 3:37 A.M. in the dark room.  John slept on his right side, left arm curled around their daughter.  Her pale blonde hair curled with perspiration in her sleep, making a little halo.  When she was awake, her face was as expressive as John’s.  When she was asleep, the way her lashes lay on her rounded cheeks, reminded Sherlock of Mary.  It was a pity in the end that John had to be the one to shoot her.  But Mary had gone back to her old ways.  She was not only a threat to national security, but a threat to John and the new baby. He did not mourn her.  Neither did her boss for that matter.  Not that Putin was known for showing emotion when any of his cronies were taken down. 

 

The platinum band was a dark line on John’s finger.  Sherlock studied that hand.  Just a few hours earlier that hand had been tangled in his dark curls while his legs were wrapped around John’s waist.  That hand had reached down to stroke Sherlock’s cock while John was balls deep inside him, whispering how much he loved him, how happily lost he felt when he was inside him.  

 

In the afterglow, while they were tenderly cleaning one another with warm,wet flannels, Olivia woke, screaming.  Night terrors were more traumatic for the fathers than for her.  It had taken them ages to figure out how to wake her from them. Mrs. Hudson had taken to keeping flavored ices in her icebox for the child.  One miserable night the elderly woman came marching up the stairs in her flannel night dress, bed jacket askew on her shoulders, and a strawberry ice in her hand.  She pushed past a disheveled and unhappy Sherlock, marched up to John who held the screaming toddler, and placed the ice on Olivia’s lip.  As if by magic, Olivia’s open eyes shifted from a blank distant stare to happy surprise. 

 

“Stawbrry ice,” she murmured. 

 

“How did you know?”  John was stunned. 

 

“I’ve been around, dear,” Mrs. Hudson patted John’s cheek.  “Try giving her a bit of peanut butter before bed.  When I lived in Florida, a friend used to do that to her children.  Eliminated night terrors. Good night, Olivia.  Good night, boys.” 

 

When Olivia woke screaming earlier that night, Sherlock swept out of the room, slipping dramatically into a dressing gown, as he headed towards the kitchen. John hopped into a pair of running shorts before taking the stairs two at a time.  Without a word, they held their frantic daughter, pressed the ice to her lower lip, and witnessed again the magical transformation.

 

“Papa!” Olivia puckered her cold lips.  The tension that her night terrors gave Sherlock melted away as he kissed her and held her in his lap.

 

“These are so much worse for us than for her,” John sighed.  “Molly must have forgotten to give Olivia her peanut butter crackers after supper.” 

 

“Sleep with you,” Olivia pushed the barely suckled ice away as she nuzzled her sticky face in Sherlock’s dressing gown. 

 

Sherlock had wanted to fall asleep with his head on John’s chest.  He wanted to wake him in the wee hours of morning, mouth around his fiancee's cock, and tell him again how happy he was that John had said yes.  Instead, their daughter pressed herself against her daddy’s chest, one little hand clasped tightly around two of her papa’s fingers.  

 

The red squared numbers shimmered 3:40 A.M.

 

John’s eyes opened.  He saw that Sherlock was awake.  With a smile, he carefully tucked a pillow behind Olivia so the sudden loss of warmth would not wake her. He stood at their bedroom door as Sherlock rose to follow him. 

 

Sherlock drew the door closed as quietly as possible.  John stood in the center of the sitting room, shorts discarded, naked body lit in shades of blues and shadow from the city lights outside their flat.  Sherlock shed his dressing gown as he crossed the space between them with long strides.  He captured John’s face between his hands, tilted their heads, and took John’s mouth hungrily.  Bare skin pressed against bare skin, their need for one another was apparent.  

 

“How long do you think we have until she realizes we’re gone?” His voice was deep, made of the early morning darkness.  

 

John’s head tipped back while Sherlock kissed and nibbled his way down his neck.  “I don’t know,” he whispered. “ Let’s not waste a moment.  I need you.”

 

“Mmmm,” he hummed, lips pressed to the base of John’s neck near his collarbone.  The reverberation sent shivers through his body, making John shudder and arch his body closer to his lover. “How do you need me, John?”

 

“I’d say on your back with your legs around me,” he gasped as Sherlock cupped his testicles. “But we’ve done that today.”

 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed against the base of John’s ear.  “I love the weight of you on me.” He tugged his earlobe with his teeth.  “I love the way our skin melds,” his hands stroked John’s sides.  “The way you make me feel… my transport is alive,” he grabbed his fiancee’s arse.  John groaned.  “God, you feel good, John.”

 

“Couch, now,” John commanded.  

 

Sherlock tightened his arms, locking John in his embrace.  “You make me feel like I never did with heroin.  You are more addictive than any pill.” He forced John’s lips apart, demanding and exploring his tongue and teeth.  “You are the god that false highs pray to, John.”

 

“Shut up and let me have you.”  John walked Sherlock towards the couch, feet shuffled across the rug; mouths locked in battle of desire. 

 

Sherlock lay back, Union Jack pillow under his tousled head.  John covered two fingers in saliva before pressing against his lover’s entrance.  He flinched a little.  He was still relaxed and slightly lubricated from four hours earlier. 

 

“I’m ready, John.  Don’t make me wait,” he arched his hips upward. 

 

“I want you on the verge of exploding before I fuck you.”  John’s thumb pressed against the base of Sherlock’s testicles, touching his prostate inside and out.  “I want to know you need me more than any high.”

 

“Yessss…” Sherlock hissed with pleasure.  “But we don’t know when Olivia will wake up.  Please, John, now.”

 

“Right,” John sighed, suppressing a chuckle. Having sex with a toddler in the house reminded John of trying to get off with girls in the backseat of their cars as a teenager before the cops or her father found them. 

 

John leaned forward on his left hand, right hand guided his cock into his partner’s snug hole.  Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s low back and pulled him closer. Sherlock’s groan of pleasure reverberated in his chest, and made John feel like his own soul was humming like an upright bass.  

 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock moaned. John pushed in slowly, pressed against his prostate, and pulled slowly back.  “Faster and harder, John. Make me confuse your name with God’s.”

 

John began to protest.  “I want to make love to you slowly…”

 

“We’re parents, John,” Sherlock undulated beneath him.  “No time…” his breath caught in his throat.  “Oh God, John, there.”  He kissed him frantically.  “Fuck me.”

 

Sherlock reached down to caress the head of his cock.  The way John pressed against his prostate was enough to get him off, but with the possibility of Olivia waking up, he didn’t want to go for the slow burn.  

 

“Sherlock,” he panted.  “I’m… so … close…” 

 

John’s pumping strokes were short and fast.  Sherlock could feel his testicles tighten.  The rush of sensation flooded his skin.  Words no longer made sense. 

 

“God,” he blurted out as he came all over his stomach.

 

“Yes…” John gasped.  “Yes,” he thrust. “I,” again. “Am.”  John’s head went back as his body went through the convulsions of his tiny death. He collapsed onto Sherlock’s sweaty and sticky chest. 

 

Sherlock played with the greying blonde hairs. He closed his eyes, enjoyed the weight of his lover on him, did not want him to get up. John hummed contentedly. 

 

From their bedroom they could hear Sherlock’s text tone. 

 

“It’s going to wake Olivia,” John scrambled to his feet.  He paused, his thighs were shaky.  

 

Sherlock unfolded himself from the sofa, snatched his discarded dressing gown, and headed quickly for their room. 

 

Olivia did not stir.  One little fist held on to Sherlock’s pillow.  Her cheek rested in a pool of drool. Sherlock looked at her before picking up his phone.  His heart melted and swelled when he looked at her.  He took the phone and met John back in the sitting room.  

 

“It’s Lestrade.  There’s been another murder.”

 

***

 

_ Good morning, Doctor Watson. I understand congratulations are in order.- MH _

 

_ Morning, Mycroft. - JW _

 

_ Don’t you want to know how I found out? - MH _

 

_ Don’t really care. - JW _

 

_ That’s no way to text to your future brother-in-law, Doctor. - MH _

 

_ What’s this about, Mycroft?  Sherlock’s off at a murder scene and I am trying to get Olivia’s breakfast. - JW _

 

_ This is the point where a normal brother would say threateningly to the newly affianced to treat my little brother right or there will be some familial repercussions.  - MH _

 

_ You Holmes boys are far from normal brothers - JW _

 

_ Indeed.  So instead this is a sincere congratulations to you upon your engagement. I am very pleased for you both. - MH _

 

_ That’s actually very kind.   Thank you, Mycroft. - JW _

 

_ You’ve made the right decision this time, John.  It’s always been the two of you. Welcome to the family. - MH _

  
  


***

 

The sun had not yet warmed the June morning.  She wore a grey blazer over a black tee shirt and jeans.  Her long hair was twisted up into a bun with a pencil keeping it in place. Sharma stood on the pavement outside the West Hampstead address. Three storey brick facade, trimmed in white; the shrubs were fully green and stood eight feet high, planted in their brick wall that gave the row of houses a bit of privacy from the busy road.  The cab stopped in the middle of the street, cars parked on both sides, while Sherlock got out. 

 

“Sharma,” he nodded.  

 

She nodded her dark head slightly. “Suresh Banerjee, male, thirty-seven, professor of biology at University College, specializing in modern sexuality, sexual psychology,  gender fluidity,and identity.”

 

“Lestrade said it’s similar to the Wintersmith murder.”

 

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Very similar. Let’s go,” she pushed past him.  

 

Sherlock was used to ineptitude and bumbling idiots getting in his way and providing too much information.  D.S. Sharma was refreshing.  He made a mental note to compliment her to Lestrade later. 

 

“Ah, Sherlock,” Lestrade met them in the garden.  “Victim is in the bedroom on the second floor.  Similar to the Wintersmith murder.”

 

“Sharma said it’s a man this time.” 

 

“Yes…” Lestrade let his word dangle.  “Just go see.”

 

Sherlock mounted the stairs two at a time.  The master bedroom door was ajar, officers and photographer in their white disposable suits trying to avoid brushing against walls and the detectives. 

 

Beneath the scent of death was the cloying scent of gardenias.  A bouquet of them stood in a large vase on a round table at the far end of the room.  The morning sunlight made the white petals semi translucent.  The walls were painted a peachy orange. Framed delicately hand painted scenes from the Kama Sutra hung on the walls.  An antique Hindu altar cabinet stood in the far corner.  The doors were ajar, revealing a brass bell, an incense holder, a large brass Kali, and several small painted deity statues.  

 

The victim was handcuffed to the brass headboard.  His cheeks were flush, his face caught between sleep and pleasure.  His dark hair was thinning, prematurely grey at the temples. An open box of condoms sat on the bedside table.  A wrapper lay discarded on the pine floor.  Sherlock would have looked to see if one of the condoms was still on the victim. 

 

“Where is his penis?”

 

Every officer in the room paused.  Sharma suppressed a giggle. “Sorry, sir.” She said under her breath to Lestrade. 

 

“Damned good question, Sherlock.”  Lestrade ran a hand back and forth over his short grey hair. 

 

The abdomen had been cut away nearly identically to Gemma Wintersmith.  The rectangle of skin and muscle was placed on the bed to the right of the body.  The viscera lay in a pile to the left. Cut marks on the top of the kidneys indicated the adrenal glands had been taken.  Blood soaked the marigold duvet and pooled onto the wood floor.  His penis and testicles had been sliced off, leaving an awkward space between his legs.  The hollowed abdominal cavity showed layers of muscle and fascia had been peeled away with a scalpel.  The coccyx lay broken in the cavity. 

 

“The sacrum is missing,” Sherlock stated.  

 

“We’re testing the empty glasses left in the kitchen for traces of Rohypnol and DNA,” Sharma said.  “And I’ve had the photographer get shots of the victim’s foot where there’s evidence of an IV.”

 

Sherlock fixed his piercing gaze on the short Indian woman for a moment, then turned to examine the feet.  He suppressed a smirk. 

 

“Doctor Hooper is looking for traces of Propofol in Gemma Wintersmith.  I’ll be sure she looks for that in him as well,” Sharma nodded towards the body.

 

“She’s good, Lestrade.”

 

Startled, Greg looked from Sharma to Holmes.  She smirked knowingly. 

 

“Send everything to Bart’s as before.  I want Molly to go over this with a fine tooth comb. Have you learned anything more about Gemma Wintersmith?”

 

Sherlock left the room.  Lestrade fist bumped Sharma and left her in charge of the scene. 

 

“We found her parents. Mark and Eliza Wintersmith, both fifty two, married since they graduated university.  Gemma was their only child.  Family was very close.  They live in the second floor flat below her.”

 

Sherlock stopped short at the bottom of the staircase. 

 

“She lived above them?” he asked slowly.

 

Flashes of Olivia as a uni student rushing down from her room to shout “I have lab today, and I’m going out with friends after class, I’ll be back late!”, blonde curls bouncing around her cherubic face filled Sherlock’s mind. 

 

“They arrived from Ibiza a little while ago.  I had Miller meet them at Heathrow to take them directly to the Yard.”

 

“Is he good with people?  Miller?”  his words were clipped.

 

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow.

 

“If you mean is he more sensitive and professional than Donovan, yes.  He’s a father of four and has a degree in sociology.”

 

“Why haven’t I been allowed to work with Miller and Sharma before?  They are almost…” Sherlock squinted with the effort of finding the correct word.  “Delightful.” 

 

“Fatherhood has changed you, mate,” Greg chuckled as he patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “ Let’s go.”

 

***

The Wintersmiths and Miller were in Lestrade’s office.  Eliza Wintersmith wiped her eyes and blew her nose.  Mark Wintersmith slumped in his chair, one arm around his wife’s waist. Miller sat wordlessly with them, pushed the bin closer to Eliza, and periodically squeezed Mark’s shoulder. 

 

“This is D.I. Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes,” Miller introduced them.

 

“The consulting detective?” Eliza choked between sobs.  “Is it as bad as that?”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up into his floppy curls.

 

“The uh… circumstances in which we found Gemma were …” Greg scratched his scalp, “mysterious enough to warrant my calling in Mister Holmes for assistance.”

 

Mark bent further forward, his body wracked with silent sobs.   Miller shot a look at the D.I.

 

Sherlock pushed his curls off his forehead.  The early morning humidity had played havoc with his hair.  He dropped to his haunches in front of the Wintersmiths.  

 

He spoke softly.

 

“What has happened to your family is desperately unfair. Scotland Yard’s only recourse is to get as much information so we can track down and prosecute whatever monster did this to your little girl.”  Mark’s hand shot out and grabbed Sherlock’s.  Sherlock gave him a reassuring squeeze.  “This is going to be difficult, but we need you to tell us as much about Gemma as possible.  We need to do her memory honour.”

 

Lestrade’s eyes widened.  Miller mouthed “I thought he was an insensitive prick”.  Lestrade shrugged. 

 

Sherlock stood. “Miller, make sure there’s tea for the Wintersmiths.  And hurry back, I want you in on this.”  He paused. The looks of confusion on the D.I.’s and Miller’s faces told him his behaviour was unexpected. 

 

“Gentlemen, I’m a father. If anything happened to my daughter I’d want you and the best mind in the world - that’s me by the way - to solve the crime.”

 

Greg nodded and stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.  Miller nodded.  “Donovan’s wrong about you, Holmes.  I’ll be right back.”

 

***

 

_ Your parents are here. Do you want me to come meet you at the Yard? - JW _

 

_ We’re done interviewing the Wintersmiths.  Second body sent to Bart’s.  Meet me there? - SH _

 

_ You’re such a romantic.  See you there. - JW _

 

_ Sherlock, it’s Molly. - MH _

 

_ You’re programmed into my contacts.  I know. - SH _

 

_ When did you program your contacts?  I thought you had all our numbers memorized. - MH _

 

_ John is trying to get me to stop forcing everyone to initial their text messages.  He programmed everyone into my phone. It’s rather annoying.  He programmed himself in as Hot Lover Boy. - SH _

 

_ So I can stop signing my texts? _

 

_ Who is this? - SH _

 

_ I’ll see you at Bart’s.  -MH _

 

***

“Blood alcohol levels were elevated,  but within legal limits.  Preliminary toxicology shows Rohypnol and Propofol in the bloodstream.”  Molly handed a folder to John.

 

John’s eyes ran down the report.  “But with these levels of Propofol, the dosage administered must have been nearly thirty thousand micrograms.  You only need fifteen thousand to induce cardiac anesthesia.” 

 

“The killer clearly did not want her to wake up while he was busy.”  Molly tucked loose hairs behind her ear.

 

The movement accented the sapphire studs in her ears.  John grinned.  “Those are pretty earrings, Molly.  Gift from Barry?”

 

A closed lipped smile spread across her face. Her cheeks pinked,  her eyes lit up. “He gave them to me over breakfast this morning. We’ve been living together for six months now.  He wanted to mark the occasion.”

 

John’s face creased into a smile.  “You may have found a winner, Molly.  Even Sherlock doesn’t have too many mean things to say about him.” 

 

They chuckled.

 

The door opened.  Sherlock stood alert in the doorway, eyes darting between his fiancee and Molly.

 

“Laughing in the morgue?  I may be a bad influence on you two.” 

 

“While undoubtedly a correct assessment of your influence on us, we aren’t laughing over dead bodies.”

 

One eyebrow arched, lips pressed into a half smirk, Sherlock shrugged.  “I’ll have to try harder.” 

 

John held the folder out to Sherlock. 

 

“Rohypnol?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Alcohol?”

 

“Yep,” John let the p pop with his lips.

 

Sherlock snatched the folder.  “Propofol.  Sharma said you’d be looking for that, Molly,”  he looked up and nodded towards her. “John, the women are finally taking over the world.  Thank goodness. I need a holiday.” 

 

“When did he become a feminist?” Molly whispered as she sidled up next to John.

 

“When he realized the power our daughter has over him at every moment of the day,” John whispered back.

 

“Do stop whispering you two.”

 

“What did you learn from the first victim’s parents?” 

 

“Information we knew already.  Thirty-four, worked as a haematology nurse at Hammersmith Hospital, single.  She got yoga teacher certification about a year ago and was teaching two classes a week at a studio in Shepherd’s Bush called Balanced.  Her parents described her as confident and never ill, always in good health.  She and her mother ran the last three London marathons and ran together most mornings.  She and her father were also avid dancers - foxtrot and swing apparently.”  A flash of doubt crossed his face as he looked into John’s eyes. “Should I be teaching Olivia how to dance?  I am rather good, you know.”

 

John’s face slid from intent and active listening about Gemma Wintersmith into a smile. “She’s a bit young.  Let’s wait two more years.”

 

“Fourth birthday gift, then.”  Sherlock nodded once. “I’ll start looking for father-daughter ballet classes.”

 

Molly turned her back to Sherlock and mouthed “Wow” to John. He just grinned and inclined his head.  

 

“I took a yoga class over at Balanced last month,”  Molly said, screwing up her face as if trying to remember details. “My friend Beth and I have been taking classes all over the city.”

 

“But you have a boyfriend, Molly,” Sherlock said, pouring over the report.

 

John rolled his eyes. Molly sighed.

 

“We don’t go to yoga classes to hook up, Sherlock.”

 

“I clearly understand women less and less.   Why do you take yoga classes, Molly?”

 

With her chin tilted down and her gaze up through her lashes, she replied, “For exercise.  And Beth is doing it as part of her spiritual practice.  Her yogi died this past year, and she’s feeling a bit lost. So we’re checking out classes.”

 

Sherlock screwed up his face, nose wrinkled.  “Nope. Not interesting. I want to test Banerjee’s body now.  Rohypnol is only in the blood for sixty hours.  Have you had time to get samples yet, Molly?”

 

“No, the body just arrived.  He’s in the cooler.” 

 

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves.  “Excellent.  John, suit up. I need you to look at the marks on the bones and tell me what instrument was used to cut them out.  Molly, I need you to analyze the incisions. We need to see if there is anything else missing besides the adrenal glands.”

 

“Again?”  John said.

 

“How did you know?” asked Molly.

 

“Obvious.  The arrangement of the organs on the bed was nearly identical to the Wintersmith murder.   And I noted the same cut marks on the kidneys.”

 

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be, Sherlock.  I’m not a pathologist.  I usually deal with living patients.”

 

“John,” Sherlock spun and captured his fiancee’s face in his hands.  “You are more clever than you give yourself credit for.  Even in your idiot ramblings, you inspire  _ me _ to the correct answers.”

 

“That,” he sighed.  “Was  _ almost _ nice.”

 

“I called you clever.”

 

“You said I have idiot ramblings.”

 

“You’re only human, John.”

 

“You don’t have to be unkind when you remind me of it, Sherlock.”

 

***

“Suresh Banerjee,” John spoke into the voice recorder.  “Aged thirty seven.  Profession - biology professor at University College London.  Time of death estimated between ten p.m Saturday twenty-third June  and one a.m. Sunday twenty-fourth June.  Death by sedation and evisceration.”

 

“I love it when you use big vocabulary words, John,” Sherlock whispered behind him. 

 

John stopped the recorder.  “Can you behave, please?”

 

Sherlock stepped aside, waiting for Molly to finish gathering blood and tissue samples for him to take back to the lab.

 

John started recording again  “Skin and muscle of abdominal wall from Iliac crest to Iliac crest, and from sternum to pubis was removed, likely with a scalpel.  Pelvic girdle and abdominal cavity up to rib twelve eviscerated.  All tissue removed from spine  from L-4 to the base of the coccyx.  Anterior cervical discectomy, L-5 disc not present.”

 

“It’s on the other table with the organs,” Molly added.   
  


“L-5 disc not present in body, but with eviscerated organs.  Sacrum removed, coccyx present. What’s this?” John peered into the body.

 

Molly and Sherlock leaned in.

 

“It’s a rock,” Sherlock stated.

 

“It’s a stone,” Molly corrected. 

 

“The difference being…?”

 

“That looks like a bit of un-tumbled orange calcite.”

 

John looked at her, eyes squinted. “How do you know that?”

 

“Beth has a collection of stones and crystals. She’s been teaching me about them.” 

 

“Is that a yoga thing?” Sherlock sneered.

 

“Don’t mock our friends, Sherlock.” John berated.

 

Molly handed a tray of full vials to Sherlock.  “Your samples.” She sneered.  She walked out of the room, allowing the door to slam behind her. 

 

“Best get working on those,” John nodded towards the vials.  “I’ll finish up here. Then I need to head home to meet your parents.”

 

“But I need you here, John.”

 

A little smile curled one side of his mouth.  He kissed his fiancee’s cheek.  “Our daughter needs at least one of her fathers at home.”

 

***

  
  


_ I need food. - SH _

 

_ Whoever you are, you are using my fiancee’s mobile.  Please return it. He will track you down. - JW _

 

_ Not funny.  I would just have Mycroft buy me a new one. - SH _

 

_ Go to the snack machine on the fourth floor. - JW _

 

_ I want Thai food. The snack machine doesn’t have yellow curry. - SH _

 

_ You should call for take away. - JW _

 

_ I am.  Please bring me an order of yellow curry. - SH _

 

_ I’m not a Thai take away.  I’m home with your daughter who wants to know why her Papa isn’t here having dinner with us. - JW _

 

_ Bring her with  you when you bring my food. - SH _

 

_ I’m not bringing Olivia to Bart’s. - JW _

 

_ Think of it as introducing her to the family business. - SH _

 

_ You’re daft. - JW _

 

_ Will you change your name when we get married?  You can, you know. - SH _

 

_ Why don’t you change your name? - JW _

 

_ I have an international reputation. - SH _

 

_ My ex-wife was an assassin for Putin and tried to carry out a hit on both of us.  I also have an international reputation. - JW _

 

_ When is my yellow curry arriving? - SH _

***

 

Olivia sat on the floor of the lab with a bag of small felt dolls Molly and Barry got for her at a hospital craft fair.  She made silly little voices for each one.  Each doll was a doctor or nurse of a different race, with stethoscopes and St. Bartholomew’s emblems embroidered on their coats.

 

Sherlock stabbed at his curry with the plastic fork.  He had tuned out most of what John told him of his parents’ visit and babysitting adventures that day.  

 

“You’re in a strop.  What’s up?”  John reached over with his own fork to grab a carrot out of Sherlock’s take away container.

 

“You really won’t change your name when we get married?”

 

“What?” John half laughed.  “You were serious?”

 

“Of course I was serious.  I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

 

“Is this like when you thought you proposed, but you didn’t really?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Do you think your text message from an hour ago was a serious discussion about changing last names?  Because it wasn’t.”

 

“Oh.”  Sherlock thoughtfully chewed a bit of chicken.  He swallowed. “John, would you consider changing your last name to mine when we marry?”

 

John smiled, the lines around his eyes going from soft to deep.  “That is rather traditional of you.”

 

“Too heteronormative?”

 

“Mmmm…” John ate a pepper.  “A bit.”

 

“What if we both change our names?”

 

“To what?”

 

“Watson-Holmes.”

 

“Me!” a tiny voice from the floor chirped happily.  “I’m Watson-Holmes!” 

 

“You certainly are,” John lifted her to the counter.  She giggled and made her daddy kiss the dolls in her hands.  He kissed her forehead then looked into his fiance’s eyes.  “I’ll think about it.”


	3. Seemingly Non-Stop July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding planning can be tricky. Choosing the right venue is important. How does the world's only Consulting Detective and his fiance choose a location for their yuletide ceremony? And our boys learn a thing or two about chakras and yoga.
> 
> "But if it ends up being big hats, milky tea, whiskey and a bit of death, that would also be appropriate."

“Have you boys decided on a date for the wedding yet?”  Mrs. Hudson  sat on the edge of the couch, watching Olivia put a wooden puzzle together.  She leaned forward to attempt to fit a piece into place.

 

“No, Nanny.  It’s a humerus, not a femur,” the child put the piece in the correct position.

 

“Weekend before Christmas.”

 

“Oh, my.  Is there enough time to plan?  That’s only in five months!” Mrs. Hudson tittered. 

 

“We aren’t going to do anything overly formal. I’ve done that already.  I think simple is best.  Just our family - you, Greg, Molly and Barry, Mycroft, and Sherlock’s parents.”

 

“What about your parents, dear?”

 

Mrs. Hudson cried for a week in January when the boys had come back from their visit to John’s parents in Wales.  

 

“No, Mrs. Hudson. Just family.”

 

Sherlock raced up the stairs, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. 

 

“John!  I’ve found the perfect place for our wedding!  The Bury Court Barn in Surrey.  It’s…”

 

“Too posh and too expensive.  No, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh, they do a lovely winter wedding, John dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Mrs. Turner’s daughter got married there two Christmases ago.  They do it all up with white fairy lights and…”

 

“I’m sure it was lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but no.  I don’t want anything too fancy.”

 

Sherlock straightened his back and puffed out his chest slightly.  “It’s my wedding, too, John.”

 

John sighed and smiled, crossed the room in two long strides and placed a kiss upon Sherlock’s chin. “And when we find the right venue  _ together _ , it’ll be perfect for both of us.”

 

Sherlock sighed.  He cupped John’s face in his long, pale fingers, and kissed him.  

“Is there tea, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

“Not your ‘ouse-keeper, dear,” a tiny voice sang out.

 

The three of them looked at Olivia. John stifled a laugh behind his hand.  Mrs. Hudson chortled.  

 

“I’ll go put the kettle on, shall I?” Sherlock said acidly.

 

“Yes, Papa,” Olivia replied, not looking up from her anatomy puzzle. “Tea and juice, please?”

 

“She’s got you right where she wants you.  The little darling,” Mrs. Hudson kissed the top of Olivia’s head. 

 

“Don’t encourage her, Mrs. Hudson,”  Sherlock turned the corner dramatically to the kitchen.

 

“Papa is wrapped around her little finger,” John wiggled his pinky and winked. 

 

John and Mrs. Hudson stifled more giggles behind their hands. 

 

***

“What were you doing in Surrey earlier?”  John put his feet up on the coffee table, mug of tea in one hand, the other stroked Sherlock’s curls out of his eyes.  Sherlock lay on the couch, head in his fiance’s lap.

 

“I wasn’t in Surrey.  I was at the Yard checking to see if there were any updates on the unsolved murders.  Lestrade left his computer unattended, so I started looking up wedding venues.”

 

John smiled. He languidly wrapped one of Sherlock’s dark curls around his finger, then watched is sproing silently back when he released it. 

 

“It’s important to you that we do this right.” It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock nodded.  “You want something a bit posh.”

 

“I want it to show the world how I see you, John - elegant and smart, refined and comfortable, traditional but unique.”

 

John could feel his chest swell with emotion.  

 

“But if it ends up being big hats, milky tea, whiskey and a bit of death, that would also be appropriate.” Sherlock lifted his eyes to see John’s reaction.  The smile in his bright blue eyes was all he needed to see.  Sherlock’s face creased with his wide grin. 

 

“Git,” John chuckled.

 

“You love me.”

 

“That just makes me a bit daft.”

 

They laughed as John leaned down and Sherlock lifted himself up for a kiss.  

 

The buzz of Sherlock’s phone halted them mid-smooch. With a sigh and quick arch of his eyebrow, Sherlock pulled his phone from his trouser pocket.

 

“It’s Lestrade.  He’s been contacted by the CID in Halifax,” Sherlock sat up, long legs swung elegantly, bare feet soundlessly touched the floor.  “The Met have been investigating a murder at Holdsworth House with similarities to the Wintersmith and Banerjee murders.  Oh, I must have been a  _ very _ good boy lately.  I’m bored with the cheating wives and paedophile stepfather cases we’ve been getting.  Fancy a trip to Yorkshire, John?”

 

***

 

The two hour- plus train ride from London to Halifax was exhausting for Sherlock and John.  Olivia had been on the Underground hundreds of times with her fathers.  But the sleek black train with its yellow, hornet-like visage and long orange stripe took Olivia’s breath away. She had to run her hand across every surface.  She squealed with delight when Sherlock lifted her to touch the winged Grand Central logo on the side of the car.

 

“Who would have thought train travel was so exciting?” John asked, laughter in his voice. 

 

They booked four seats facing each other so Olivia could bring along a small sack of toys and have a lie down in case she needed a nap. Olivia knelt in her plush purple seat, face pressed to the glass as the city of London melted away in a rush of colours - brick browns and red, steely greys and blacks - into the varied landscapes of suburbs, farms, neighbourhoods, and small cities. 

 

“Papa!” she squealed, climbing from her seat to Sherlock’s, stepping on every inch of his quads from his knee to his lap.  “See?  See?”

 

“Yes, Olivia, Papa sees everything.  I not only see, but I observe.”

 

“Observe,” she rolled the word around her mouth, palms pressed to the window.

 

John shook his head, silently chuckling.  

 

By the third stop at Wakefield, Olivia was sound asleep across John’s lap and an empty seat.  Sherlock had his laptop in front of him, but his eyes were closed, his head was tipped back, and he was breathing loudly. 

 

“Is yours a snorer?” The man seated on the other side of the aisle from John asked quietly. 

 

“Not normally.  I think it’s the way his head is back.”

 

The stranger nodded.  “Mine is a vicious snorer.  I nearly had to sleep in a separate room.  But I couldn’t bring myself to do that, you know?  It would feel too much like a step back in time, keeping separate rooms for appearances like we were just flat mates and not a couple.”

 

John tilted his head slightly as he looked at his fiance.  He smiled.  “So what did you do?”

 

“Earplugs.” 

 

“Ta.  I’ll keep it in mind if he gets out of hand.” 

 

The stranger smiled and bobbed his head once.  He put his earbud back into his ear and continued to listen to whatever he was playing on his phone. 

 

Sherlock and Olivia both woke before the train pulled into Halifax station.  John had put Olivia’s toys in her knapsack, careful not to lose track of her 3-D DNA helix, the cloth doll set Mrs. Holmes had made of Olivia, Sherlock and John, and the stretchy bracelet Molly gave her made of carved bone beads. They were both chatty and perky, showing no signs of sleepiness. 

 

As they stepped onto the platform, Sherlock checked his phone again.  “Lestrade said we’d be picked up by the officer who was called to the hotel when the body was first found.  A Sergeant Cawood.”

 

The crowd on the platform dispersed.  Standing under the HALIFAX sign was a blonde female officer, early to mid-fifties, wearing her black uniform, bright safety vest and bowler hat.

 

John extended his hand, “Sergeant Cawood?”

 

“Yes,” she took his proffered hand.

 

“I’m John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shook her hand.

 

“Pleasure, gentlemen.”

 

Olivia held on to John’s trousers, and peeked up at Sergeant Cawood.

 

“Oh, hello there,” her professional tone slipped into sweet and maternal.  “My name is Sergeant Catherine Cawood.  What’s your name, luv?”  she dropped to her haunches to be eye level with the child.

 

Olivia looked to her fathers.  They both nodded.  She stepped out from behind her daddy’s leg and extended one tiny hand as her parents had done.  Catherine chuckled, a warm grin spread across her face, as she shook her hand. 

 

“Olivia Watson-Holmes.”

 

“Well, Olivia Watson-Holmes, it is a pleasure to meet you.” Catherine’s blue eyes twinkled behind her shaggy blonde fringe.

 

“Police like Uncle Greg?” Olivia whispered loudly to John.

 

John and Catherine exchanged looks of “isn’t she darling” as the sergeant stood.  

 

“Yes, love, Sergeant Cawood works for the police just like Uncle Greg.”

 

Olivia looked the new person up and down, nodded her head once, then twined her fingers with Catherine’s.  Sergeant Cawood gasped a tiny “Oh”.

 

“My grandson’s nearly twelve.  It’s been a long time since a little one held my hand.”

 

“You may have a friend for life, sergeant.”  John threw Olivia’s knapsack over his shoulder and rolled their suitcase behind him.  Sherlock followed them all out of the station.

 

***

 

“The victim’s name is Ana Catherine Vasquez.  She was the chef at the hotel.” Sgt. Cawood pulled the brightly coloured Vauxhall cruiser onto the main road.

 

“Did she often take a room at the hotel?” Sherlock sat in the front seat, drinking in the view as they left the station.

 

“Not according to the hotel manager.  But several people said she was having an affair with a woman she met in London on a yoga retreat.”

 

“They would meet here?” John, in the back of the cruiser with Olivia, leaned forward.

 

Sgt. Cawood looked at John through the rear-view mirror. “She clearly didn’t want her husband to know she was having it off with someone else.”

 

“Clearly.”

 

They all paused.  Olivia was playing with the beads on her bone bracelet, but her little voice had cut through the adult conversation, forcing them all to suppress chuckles. 

 

“I was told by Inspector Lestrade to take you directly to Holdsworth House to look at the scene.  The body was removed to Calderdale, but we’ve left the room best as we could so you could look at it,” she paused, making eye contact briefly with John through the mirror.  “What will Miss Watson-Holmes be doing?”

 

“Ah,” John nodded.  “We have a room booked at Holdsworth.  I’ll take Olivia to our room while Sherlock inspects the scene.”

 

“But I need you, John.”

 

“We didn’t bring Mrs. Hudson to watch Olivia, Sherlock.  I’ll stay with her while you go ‘observe’ and ‘deduce’.  You’ll be fine without me.”

 

“Hardly.”  Sherlock and Olivia said in unison.

 

Sgt. Cawood guffawed.  Sherlock shot her a quizzical, offended glare. 

 

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes.  Your little girl may look like your husband, but she’s very much like you.”

 

“Fiance, sergeant.”

 

“Oh?  When’s the wedding?”

 

“Christmas week, actually.”  John answered.

 

“Oh lovely.  Will you do it down in London?” she turned the car down a long country road.

 

“We haven’t booked a venue yet. We’re still looking.” Sherlock huffed.

 

“Not for nothing, but Holdsworth is a lovely venue,” she said.

 

“Get married at a murder scene?”

 

“Well, clearly not in the room where the victim was murdered, John.  But you do have to admit that it would be rather romantic for us to marry at the site of a murder we’ve investigated.”

 

“If it’s alright with you two, I’ll watch Olivia while you both look at the murder scene.  There’s a garden.  We can have a walk round.  Then maybe she’ll be good and tired for you tonight.”

 

“That’s very kind, sergeant, but we don’t want to impose,” John answered courteously.

 

“No imposition.  As I said, my grandson is twelve and my son is estranged from his wife, so I don’t get to see their baby. It’d be a pleasure to watch her.”

 

Sherlock had been glaring at her sideways.

 

“If both fathers approve, of course.”

 

Sgt. Cawood did not wither under Sherlock’s glare.  She briefly met his eye, confident, patient, and vaguely amused.  

 

“I’m not sure you approve of me for some reason, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“On the contrary, Sergeant.  I find you fairly intelligent, confident and not easily intimidated.”

 

“ _ Fairly _ intelligent?”

 

“Those aren’t fighting words, sergeant.  It’s actually quite high praise from Sherlock. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was nearly  _ flirting _ .”  John smirked.

 

“I never flirt, John.”

 

“I’d punch him in the face if he was,” she said calmly. “Of course I’d cut my knuckle on those cheekbones.”

 

Sgt. Cawood put the car into park.  She turned her patient blue gaze to Sherlock.  “You’re as much an arrogant prat as I’d heard.  But I like you, Mr. Holmes.  I don’t think the local D.I. can handle this case.  I think  _ you _ can.  I’m a mother, a grandmother, and a copper. Very capable of tending a small child. She’ll be in safe hands, I promise. Do I have your permission to take your daughter for a walk while you and your fiance inspect the murder scene?”

 

Sherlock lowered his eyelids, studying the officer beside him.  “Yes, sergeant.  I need John at the scene.  Your offer is most welcome.  Thank you.”

 

***

 

“The murderer is a woman,” John strolled into the hotel room, shuffling through the envelope of crime scene photos the sergeant gave them. 

 

“Yes, John.”

 

“How long have you known the murderer is a woman?”

 

“Lack of penetrative sex at the Wintersmith scene.  One condom wrapper at the Banerjee scene.  No evidence of anal play,” Sherlock walked around the room, scanning in every detail.  “Oh, and of course Sgt. Cawood said that Vasquez was having an affair with a woman.”

 

“So we’re looking for a female bisexual serial killer with keen surgical skills who’s into yoga.”

 

Sherlock stopped abruptly and spun towards John.  Without the coat it wasn’t as dramatic a gesture.  “Why yoga, John?”

 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock stood toe to toe with John, looking into, then past his eyes.  His mind raced, going over the details of the three cases.  

 

“Gemma Wintersmith was a yoga instructor.  Banerjee was a Hindu and practiced yoga.  Vasquez met her lover in London at a yoga retreat.” Sherlock ran off the information.

 

“Wait, how do you know Banerjee practiced yoga?  You can’t assume that just because he’s Indian, Sherlock.”

 

“It’s in the case file I was going through at Lestrade’s office the other day.”  Sherlock give John a quick kiss before he turned to pace the room.  “Suresh Banerjee’s father is a fairly well known guru in London.  Has a large following, especially of women.  Suresh taught at the ashram sometimes.  Had a reputation of having a string of very satisfied lovers.  They tended to be one-off’s.  Several of the women had said he was an ‘ego boost’ and ‘helped them’ get past sexual blocks in their own marriages.  It was all in the files.”

 

“Jeez.”

 

“Indeed, John.  So we need to find a bisexual surgeon with a penchant for yoga.” 

“But why is she killing her lovers?”

 

“ _ That _ is what we need to find out.”

 

John studied the photos of Ana Vasquez’ body.  The incisions were similar to the previous killings, but the section of abdomen removed was from higher up, the skin and muscle cut right to the edge of the lower ribs.  The organs were all placed carefully to the left of the body.  The stomach was missing, as were all five lumbar vertebrae and the pancreas.  Ana lay against the snow white pillow case, her deep brown hair mussed, a dark halo. She had on a silver lace bra with matching garter belt and black fishnet stockings.  The garter belt had been cut and was soaked in blood.  There was one photo with a close up of her feet, and the two drops of blood where the IV had been on the anterior left foot. 

 

“Is there any mention of a stone in the abdominal cavity, John?”

 

He flipped through the photos and notes.  “Yes.  A chunk of tumbled yellow citrine.”

 

“The missing glands and bones must be related to the stones.”

 

“When we get to our room I’ll start looking up information on yoga and crystals and body parts.”

 

The sloped ceiling of the room forced Sherlock to stoop as he walked around the bed.  The body had been removed, but they had left the scene otherwise intact.  The blood soaked duvet showed the places where the blood pooled beneath the body and the spots where the section of abdomen and the pile of discarded organs had been placed.

 

Sherlock huffed, stood quickly and smacked his head on the sloped ceiling.  He closed his eyes for a moment to let the pain pass.  He walked, stooped over, towards John.  Once at his side, he stood tall.

 

“The major difference in this crime scene is the fact that it’s in a hotel room and not the victim’s own bedroom.  There is a lack of personal decor.  But now we know the killer is a woman, potentially a surgeon, and into yoga. I want to go to Calderdale to look at the body myself, and review the evidence.”

 

“Fine,” John pressed his lips together and nodded.  “I’ll relieve Sgt. Cawood of babysitting duty.  We’ll meet you for dinner later?”

 

“But John, I need you at Calderdale.”

 

“Sherlock,” John tucked the photos into the file.  “We can’t leave Olivia with Sgt. Cawood, and I’m not taking her to the morgue.”

 

“She’s been to Bart’s plenty of times.  Family outing.” He widened his eyes in an attempt to look innocent.

 

John sighed.  Sherlock wasn’t wrong. 

 

***

John spoke into his phone, recording his observations on the body of Ana Catherine Vasquez. “This is Doctor John H. Watson at the Calderdale Hospital Morgue in Halifax...”

 

“It’s your phone, John,” Sherlock’s voice clipped over the intercom. “Why do you identify yourself to your own phone?”

 

John shot his fiance a look of absolute exasperation through the observation window.

 

“Where is our daughter?”

 

Sherlock leaned towards the microphone. “Sitting on the floor, not looking at the fascinating dead body in there with you, learning how to tie a tourniquet on her doll.”

 

John nodded, turned his back and brought his phone back up to his face. “Fifteenth of July.  Examining the body of Ana Catherine Vasquez, former chef at Holdsworth House…”

 

“Did you know, John,” Sherlock’s voice clipped over the intercom again.  “That Holdsworth House was used as a location for a t.v. programme?  Some sort of romantic getaway.”

 

John sighed.

 

***

“I dislike it when criminals have no record,” Sherlock sat on his haunches in the club chair in their room, arms across his chest.

 

“No need to pout, Sherlock,”  John tenderly pulled a clean sundress over Olivia’s head.  “Let’s keep this one clean until at least dinner time, okay love?”

 

“Yes, daddy.” The toddler started bouncing on the bed.

 

John slipped his hands under her arms and placed her gently on the floor. “No bed jumping.  You know that.”

 

“Papa jumps on bed at home.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes went wide.  John scowled at him. 

 

“Oh does he?”

 

“Oliva, we need to talk about secrets we keep from daddy.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“Seriously, John. We’re in the middle of a murder investigation,” he quickly changed the topic.  “We have fingerprints that match from all three murders, and nothing in the database. We have hair from each scene that matches, but no DNA on file!  Why isn’t the MET collecting DNA from every person in England yet?”

 

“Um… because that’d be a gross human rights violation, Sherlock.”

 

“Pah,” he scoffed.

 

“So we have a brand new criminal.  Someone with a clean record,” John knelt in front of his fiance.  “Think of how exciting this is, Sherlock!” John put his hands on Sherlock’s knees. “We can narrow down a list of female surgeons who practice yoga.”

 

Sherlock continued to pout.

 

“It’ll be like a giant game of Cluedo. But you know the weapon and the room already.” He subtly shifted the angle of his head in an attempt to make eye contact with his petulant partner.

 

“I don’t have a murder weapon.”

 

“No. But you know they are using surgical tools.”

 

“I don’t have one room, John.  Each murder has been in a different room.”

 

John sighed.  

 

***

 

John and Olivia sat at their table, waiting for Sherlock to return from the loo.  The booster seat was upholstered to match the blue and green fleur de lis pattern on the chairs. It was all John could do to keep Olivia in her chair and not climb into the window seat.  The late July evening was bright, the weather was cooling with no threat of rain.  An afternoon wedding reception spilled into the garden.  Olivia wanted to watch the party.

 

“Sit down, love.  Papa will be back soon and we can order.”

 

“Pretty party outside, daddy.” She squirmed in her seat.

 

John turned. A handsome couple in matching dove grey suits were posing for photos with their wedding party.  One groom had a pale pink shirt, the other groom had a mint green shirt.  Each of their entourages wore dresses or shirts to match.  One grooms-maid in mint held a pair of standard poodles with coordinating leashes. 

 

“That’s a wedding.” 

 

“Wedding,” she murmured. 

 

“John!” Sherlock plopped into his chair with a colour brochure.  “Have you seen this?”

 

John looked at the cover.  Winter Weddings Holdsworth House Hotel and Restaurant .

 

“Are you thinking we should book our wedding here, Sherlock?”

 

“ Holdsworth house is a Jacobean manor steeped in history, John.”

 

“You read that from the first page”

 

“Yes, but look at the photos, John.  We could have an afternoon tea wedding like the party here today.” Sherlock turned the page.  “They have the white fairy lights that Mrs. Hudson is so fond of.  And we can get married at one of Yorkshire’s top wedding venues.”

 

“Stop reading the brochure to me.”

 

Sherlock leaned in, tracing the bones and veins in the back of John’s hand.  “Think of how romantic it will be, getting married at a crime scene,” John caught the twinkle in his fiance’s eye. “ Molly in an ice blue gown, Lestrade in a navy suit…” John looked into his fiance’s eyes.  

 

“Our wedding wouldn’t be complete without Bart’s finest pathologist and the Yard’s finest D.I.” 

 

“I presume you mean Molly and Lestrade.”

 

John rolled his eyes.  

 

“Papa!  See wedding?”

 

“Yes, Olivia.  Papa sees the wedding.  Daddy and I are thinking about getting married here over Christmas.  What do you think of that?”

 

“Fish fingers!”

 

John coughed into his hand, hiding a smile.  “She’s hungry, Sherlock.”

 

***

 

Olivia slept on the fold away bed the hotel set up.  She clutched her doll, done up with three tourniquets, a neck brace Sherlock fashioned out of a sock, and plasters with Peppa Pig on them that Sgt. Cawood had in her police car. Sherlock lay on his belly across the foot of the king sized bed, thumbing through every colour wedding brochure the hotel had. John sat against the headboard, typing away on his laptop.

 

“Have you heard from Lestrade yet?”

 

“He said you already asked him to be your best man. So I’ve asked Molly to be mine.”

 

“No, idiot,” John sipped the whiskey next to him.  “Have you heard anything back from Lestrade about what we found today?”

 

“Nope.”  Sherlock popped the P.

 

“I’ve been looking up information on yoga and crystals.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

“And I think I’ve found a pattern.”

 

“What do you think of Royal Albert?”

 

“What?”

 

“For a pattern.”

 

“What are you on about, Sherlock?  I’m talking about the murders here.”

 

“Royal Albert is a gold and burgundy rose pattern by Royal Doulton. The hotel offers it as one of the china patterns for tea time weddings.”

 

John rolled his eyes.

“I may not know about china patterns, but I have learned this.  Check out this site,” Sherlock crawled up next to John.  “The root chakra correlates to the base of the spine, the adrenal glands and the colour red.  The sacral chakra has to do with sexuality and creativity.  It is orange and relates to reproductive organs.”

 

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop. He drank in all the information on the screen. “This is amazing John.  Our killer is working her way up the chakra system and taking trophies from each victim.”

 

“Looks like.  There are seven chakras.  If we don’t find her, we could have four more victims.”

 

“She’ll be looking for a heart next.”  Sherlock scrolled through the sites John had tabbed.

 

“But why?  Why collect glands and bones related to the chakras?  Why leave behind a crystal?”  John did his best to sit in lotus pose.  He palpated the area for each chakra based on the picture currently on the screen.

 

“She wants something. She’s lacking something…”  Sherlock’s voice was soft and thoughtful.

 

“The root chakra is about family of origin, stability.  Gemma Wintersmith was close to her parents. Second chakra is about sexuality.  Banerjee taught sexual psychology and was known for affairs with his yoga students.” 

 

“John, you’re brilliant!”

 

“I know,” he said matter-of-factly.  

 

“And Ana Vasquez was a chef.  This third chakra thing is about self confidence and digestion.”  Sherlock paused and looked at John quizzically.  “How on earth are those things related?”

 

John made a breathy half chuckle noise.  “Dunno, love. This is all a bit too new-agey for me.  We should ask Molly when we get back. She’s been doing yoga lately.” 

 

“So the next victim will be someone who practices yoga, and according to these sites you found, will love themselves  _ and _ have a great deal of love and compassion for the world around them.”

 

“Rules you out, then.”

 

“My heart only belongs to you, John.”

 

“Feeling romantic all of a sudden?”

 

“Feeling… something…” Sherlock placed John’s hand on his erect cock. “You could call it romance. I was thinking of calling it frotting.”

 

“With Olivia in the room?”  John hissed.

 

“Don’t be tiresome, John. You can always just swallow if you don’t want to get too messy.”

 

John closed the laptop and placed it on the floor.  He turned to find himself in Sherlock’s arms.  His fiance’s warm mouth explored his neck and ear.

 

“I love it when you get randy.”

 

***

 

“Did you boys have a nice trip up north?”  Mrs. Hudson took Olivia out of Sherlock’s arms as they walked in the door of 221.  

 

“Nanny!” Olivia wrapped her chubby little arms around Mrs. Hudson’s neck. 

 

“We saw a dead body, booked our wedding venue, and did some shopping.”  Sherlock took the stairs to their flat two at a time, followed by Mrs. Hudson carrying Olivia and John carrying all their bags.

 

“You know,” panted John as he struggled up the stairs with his burdens.  “Just the usual for us.  Only this time no one tried to punch Sherlock in the face. Could be a first.”

 

“What sort of shopping?”

 

Sherlock dropped a black plastic shopping bag onto the kitchen table.  Olivia squirmed out of Mrs. Hudson’s arms.  

 

“Daddy, snack?”

 

John left all the bags by the door.  He rummaged through his pocket for a granola bar he was keeping for Olivia. 

 

Mrs. Hudson emptied Sherlock’s shopping.  Her face crinkled in confusion as she pulled out a pair of black spandex shorts and a purple tie dyed vest with a meditating Buddha printed on the front.

 

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said.  “I’ve also signed up for some yoga classes.”

 

“Yoga classes?”  She sputtered.  “Whatever for?”

 

“To catch a killer, Mrs. Hudson!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter comes from the a-ha song (Seemingly) Non-Stop July. 
> 
> I based Olivia's vocabulary on my own daughter. When my offspring was 18 months old, she had twice the vocab of the average 18 month old, and she was stringing together phrases and short sentences. 
> 
> The train they take to Halifax is real. If you aren't from, or haven't been to the UK, check out the website and train tables. 
> 
> And yes, this is Sgt. Catherine Cawood from the BBC/Netflix show Happy Valley. And the Holdsworth Hotel was the setting for a romantic getaway in Last Tango in Halifax.   
> http://www.holdsworthhouse.co.uk/index.php/weddings/


	4. Is Your Love Strong Enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer is winding down and turning to autumn. Wedding plans are in full swing, there's another murder, and John has a visitor from Wales.

 

_ Got the invite, little brother.  Right posh. - HW _

 

_ Ta, Harry. You and Clara coming? - JW _

 

_ Of course. Wouldn’t miss it. - HW _

 

_ John? - HW _

 

_ Yeah? - JW _

 

_ Thank you for the invite. I’m glad we’ve reconciled. And I’m chuffed for you. Both of you. - HW _

 

_ Ta, Harry.  Me, too. - JW _

 

“You should start signing your texts JWH.”  Sherlock peered over John’s shoulder as he strolled behind his chair.

 

“You should start signing yours SWH.”

 

“Not until you’ve answered me.”

 

“Tosser.”

 

Sherlock held an invitation between his thumb and forefinger.  “You are cordially invited to the wedding of William Scott Sherlock Holmes and John Hamish Watson on twenty-first December.”  He sighed.  “That’s just over three months away, John.  Did we give ourselves enough time to prepare?”

 

“We’ll be fine.”  John droned, eyes focused on his phone.

 

“But what about booking rooms at Holdsworth for our guests?”

 

“The hotel saved a block of rooms for the number of guests we told them we’re inviting.”

 

“What about the table linens?”

 

John kept his eyes on his phone, his voice monotonous. “Cream on the tables with mulberry runners and hunter green napkins to match the chair covers and bows.”

 

“But the…”

 

“The staff at Holdsworth know full well how to fold napkins into roses.  And they’ll be placing them in the tea cups.”

 

“Did we request the Royal Doulton…”

 

“With the hand painted periwinkles.”

 

“What?”

 

John sighed as he placed his phone down.  He stood and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands. “They will have the Royal Albert pattern and the napkins will be folded into roses and placed in the tea cups.  They will not give us the Gordon Ramsey Royal Doulton, as they do not use that setting at the hotel.” John kissed Sherlock’s nose.

 

“Bloody gauche anyway.”

 

John walked to the kitchen. “Relax, Sherlock.  Right now the only thing you have to worry about is what colour suit you’re wearing.”

 

Two silk dress shirts on plush hangers hung from push pins in the mantle.  John’s was hunter green, Sherlock’s was wine dark.  

 

“We’re having an afternoon wedding.  We should wear charcoal suits.”

 

“Sunset around the solstice is tea time.  We can go with black and it would be fine.”

 

“Didn’t you tell me that the solstice has to do with the earth going around the sun bit?”

 

John chuckled as he filled the kettle.  

 

“Tea this late at night, John?” Sherlock slid his arms around John’s waist and rested his chin on John’s shoulder. 

 

“I fancy a cup of herbal tea.  Do you want one?” 

 

“I’d rather take you to bed.” He brushed the tip of his nose along John’s ear.

 

John’s breath caught, then sped up.  “Early night, is it?”

 

“Mmmmm,” he hummed against the warm spot behind John’s ear.  “Did you give Olivia her peanut butter after dinner?” Sherlock slipped his right hand under John’s waistband. 

 

“Oh yes.” He leaned back.  He felt the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers and rubbed against it.

 

“Is that a yes, you gave our daughter her night terror stopping snack, or yes you want an early night?”  Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around John’s semi-hard cock.  He gingerly stroked it with his pinky.  

 

“To all of the above.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes, damn it,” John turned in his arms to face him.  “It’s been ages since we’ve made love.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a devilish grin.  “It’s been five days.”

 

John grabbed his fiance’s arse, pressing their cocks together. “ _ Ages. _ ”

 

“Don’t exaggerate, John.”

 

John twined his fingers in the dark curls, pulled Sherlock’s face down for a kiss.  In a single motion, he pivoted, turning Sherlock so his back was pressed against the sink. John angled his hips, pressing his now fully erect cock against his fiance’s thigh. 

 

“I’m gagging, Sherlock. We’ve never just been us.  We’ve always been a family.  Olivia’s needs must come first. I’ve not had enough of you yet.”  He slipped his tongue into his mouth, exploring and demanding, attempting to convey the depth of his desire. Sherlock’s knees got a bit wobbly.  “I may never get enough of you.  So stop being a prat and take me to bed. Let’s make a mess of the sheets.”

 

“You’re such a drama queen, John,” he whispered hoarsely. 

 

John busied himself unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers.  Freed from its fabric prison, Sherlock’s cock stood fully erect, its head shiny with pre-cum.

 

“Like you aren’t gagging for a shag yourself.”  John grinned as he stroked Sherlock’s cock.

 

“It’s at attention for you, Captain Watson.  Ready for you to command.”  Sherlock’s voice thrummed low and deep. 

 

“Bed.  Now.”  He commanded. “I want to see how these yoga classes are working.”

 

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock winked, saluted, shimmied out of his trousers, and marched to their room in just his shirt and socks.

 

_ *** _

_ You didn’t invite mum. - HW _

 

_ Why would we? - JW _

 

_ Johnny, she reads your blog.  She knows you are getting married.  She called to see if Clara and I got invited. - HW _

 

_ What did you tell her? - JW _

 

_ You didn’t tell me not to tell her anything. So she knows. All of it. - HW _

 

_ … _

 

_ Damn it, Johnny. She’s our mother. - HW _

 

_ They told me in January that they don’t want anything to do with me or Olivia or Sherlock. They aren’t family.  We only want family at our wedding. - JW _

 

_ How is Olivia? - HW _

 

_ Drew another picture for her Auntie Clara.  You two should have kids. - JW _

 

_ :)  Have her save it for Saturday when we take her to the zoo. - HW _

 

_ Will do. - JW _

 

***

  
  


The blue lights cut through the night sky.  The sound of two way radios and people speaking loudly into mobile phones blended into the noise of traffic and the murmurs of onlookers. Lestrade and Sharma stood on the street.

 

_ Another one.  Ossulton Street, Kings Cross.  - GL _

 

Greg ran a hand over his silvery hair. “Bugger it.  I need them both.  Difficult to get them at the same time since they became parents.”

 

_ Bring John. I need you both. - GL _

 

“What will they do with the baby?  It’s the middle of the night.”  Sharma asked.

 

“How are you with kids?”

 

She cocked a dark eyebrow. “Not on, sir. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I do childcare.”

 

“Sorry. Yeah. You’re right.  I’m her godfather. I’ll watch her.”

 

Greg typed quickly.

 

_ Bring Olivia. I’ll watch her. - GL _

 

_ She just woke up to ask if she could have a little late night trip to visit Uncle Greg at a crime scene. - SH _

 

_ Tosser. - GL _

 

_ How did you know John’s pet name for me? - SH _

 

“Are they coming, sir?”  Sharma slipped on the PPE over her kit. 

 

“On their way,” he nodded.  

 

_ Chamberlain House, Ossulton Street.  Can’t miss us. - GL _

  
  


***

“Sorry guys.  I really need you both on this.”

 

Greg took the half asleep Olivia from John’s arms. 

 

“What’s inside?”  John took the PPE and booties Sharma offered him. 

 

“Evan Jones, thirty-five,” Sharma referred to her notepad. “Black male, paediatric nurse at Bart’s Health, volunteer at The Children’s Society.  Worked with abused kids. Wife died in a traffic collision two years ago.  No children of their own.”

 

“He’s missing his heart,” Sherlock interrupted.

 

“How did you know that?” Sharma asked.

 

“And vertebrae.  Possibly from the thoracic region.  I’d guess T-1 through about T-5,” John added.

 

“Bloody hell.  Seriously, how did you know?” Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock.

 

“Could you not swear while you’re holding Olivia, please?” Sherlock cupped his hands over her ears as she slept against Lestrade’s shoulder. 

 

John slipped his arms into the white coverall. “It’s been two months since the last murder, and following the pattern we expected her to follow, organs, glands and bones related to the heart chakra were bound to be next on her list for her collection.” 

 

“Any luck on finding out who this killer is?” Greg shifted Olivia to his other shoulder.  

 

“I’ve been to seventeen yoga classes all over London searching for her.  Haven’t found her yet.”

 

“Yoga classes?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

 

“You should see his downward-facing dog pose,” John winked.

 

“Oi! Enough. Go have a look.”

 

Sharma chuckled as she left Lestrade in the courtyard and followed Holmes and Watson up to the fourth floor flat.

 

***

 

The flat was neat.  Neater than they expected it to be for a single man. There was no art on the white walls.  The sitting room window, which looked over the courtyard, had a single beige curtain panel tied to one side. The police lights flashed against the glass. All the furniture was black - microsuede sectional, club chair, desk and bookcase.  A flat panel television took up most of a wall across from the couch.  Throw pillows were arranged on the black and beige area rug.

 

“They started in here,” Sherlock said.  “Did you look for strands of her hair on the pillows?  They were fooling around on the floor before they moved into the bedroom.”

 

Sharma nodded towards the evidence bags in a forensic officer’s hand. 

 

Sherlock cocked his head to the right.  “You never get defensive. You are always on the ball, as they say.”

 

“Cor,” John huffed a half chuckle.  “He likes you, Sharma.”

 

“Don’t let it go to your head.” He shot her an icy glare.  The wink he followed up with took her by surprise. 

 

Sherlock walked to the bedroom.  John stood at her side.  

 

“Your fiance is a right prat.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Don’t ever tell him, but reading your blog and following his website are the reasons I got into this. Mum wanted me to be a statistician.  Dad wanted me to be an engineer.”

 

John smiled warmly at the D.S.  “Our secret. Glad you ignored your parents.  You’re a damned good detective.”  His gaze moved to her wrists.  “Gold bangles.”  He wrinkled his left eyebrow quizzically.  “Engaged?”

 

She smiled.  “Wedding’s in two weeks.  This is my last shift before I take off to prepare.”

 

“Flying back to Punjab or staying local?”

 

“How did you know?” She laughed. “No, no. Don’t tell me.  Everyone’s here.  Both mine and my fiance’s families have been here since our great-grandparents. I’ve never even been to India.”

 

“Well, I’m happy for you.  Congrats to you and your fiance. He’s a lucky man.”

 

“Ta.”

 

“John!”  Sherlock’s deep voice boomed from the next room.

 

“Yours isn’t a detective, is he?”

 

Her grin spread across her face.  “No.  He’s an accountant.”

 

***

 

The spartan decor continued in the bedroom.  John thought Evan Jones must have purged everything that had belonged to him and his wife.  The bedding was all black and beige, like he had bought all the soft furnishings for his flat at the same time and place.  The room was not as impersonal as the sitting room.  On the black enamel dresser were framed photos of a smiling couple.  The black man who lay sprawled out upon the bed looked happy in the pictures.  A wedding photo of him in a dark suit, and his bride in an ivory lace dress with her black hair in braids swept up into a delicate veil.  A candid shot of them laughing at a party.  Her high cheekbones were rosy with laughter.  Several photos were of both of them in nursing scrubs with children in hospital beds: colouring pictures at tiny tables, starting an IV in the arm of a teddy bear.  

 

Sharma stood at John’s elbow.  “They were both paediatric nurses at Bart’s.  The neighbor said they dedicated their whole lives to helping out kids.  He got citations and awards from all sorts of charities and the mayor for his work with kids from abusive homes.”

 

“He had a good heart,” John cocked an eyebrow..

 

“Apparently good enough to collect,” Sherlock said dispassionately.  “Come look at this, John.”

 

The body was laid out upon the bed like the other victims.  His head, with tight spiral curls jutting out in many directions, lay upon the black encased pillow.  He was naked, unused condom still on his flaccid penis.  The muscles in the chest had been cut from the collarbone to the lateral pecs, and down the center to the mid torso.  His skin and fascia pulled back, like the binding of a book.  The pile of discarded bone, lungs, and tissue was smaller than the previous murders. 

 

“What’s different about this one?” Sherlock pondered aloud.

 

John turned a pathologist’s eye to the body.  “Same marks on the foot where the IV was started. Three drops of blood. Incision is clean.  Bone saw was used to cut through the thoracic cavity.  Instead of going up under the ribs, she removed everything from the sternum to the lateral pec.  Ribs one and two look to be untouched from the anterior, but she’s cut ribs one through five from the vertebrae posteriorly on both sides of the spine.   He’s in his thirties, so the thymus gland has been inactive for a while.  Turned to adipose.  She didn’t bother taking that.”

 

“Brilliant, John, as usual.”

 

‘But?”

 

“Look at his face.”

 

John walked around to the right side of the bed.  Evan’s head was turned towards the photos. His face was not peacefully in the throes of ecstasy as the previous victims.  There was profound sadness in his visage of death.

 

“Eyes swollen from crying.  Tear marks upon his cheeks.  The tears are still pooled up in the curve of his nose.  Jesus Christ.”  John took a step back.  

 

“Our killer seduced his body, but not his heart.  I bet this was the first time he had sex since his wife died.  His final thoughts before the Rohypnol took over were of her.”  

 

“There’s no stone,” Sharma pointed out.

 

Both of them looked at the young detective.  John bent over the corpse.

 

“Bloody hell, she’s right, Sherlock.  Look inside.”

 

“No malachite.  No rose quartz.  Nothing.”

 

“Aren’t you the right expert on crystals for chakras now.”  John stood up and stretched his back.  “I want to be part of the autopsy.  How soon before you can get him moved to Bart’s?”

 

“I’ll text you,” Sharma nodded to them both.

 

***

John sighed as he slid into the steaming bath.  That morning after they visited the murder scene, they brought Olivia home to try and get her to sleep.  Waking up suddenly in the arms of Uncle Greg with the blue lights flashing all over Kings Cross, stimulated all her senses. She ran around the courtyard saying “Where’s body, Lestrade?” and “Dead” to the amusement of the police. She was still wound up when he left her with Sherlock to go to the clinic.  Exhausted and powered by far too many paper cups of Earl Grey, he made it through chicken pox and chest colds and a few minor stitches before getting the text from Sharma that the body was at Bart’s.  

 

Sherlock quietly turned the knob on the bathroom door. He placed the glass in John’s hand, ice clinked gently together.  

 

“We found the stone.”  John rested his head against the back of the tub. “The adipose that used to be his thymus had been lifted with a scalpel.  We found a tumbled malachite, carved into a heart shape, tucked inside.”

 

“I would have used a rose quartz.”

 

John half laughed, lifting his drink to his lips.  

 

“Rose quartz symbolizes all forms of love - self, family, romantic, platonic.  Malachite is used more often for easing the heart through transformations.”

 

John sat up.  “You’re really taking these yoga classes seriously?”

 

“Don’t be silly, John.  I don’t believe in this any more than I believe an old man in a beard carrying a scythe turns the clock on New Year’s Eve. But our killer believes, and that is what is important.  She’s telling us that she is looking for emotional help, not love.” 

  
  


***

 

_ The wedding invitation arrived.  Very tasteful.  - MH _

 

_ Will you be attending?  SH _

 

_ Wouldn’t miss this one for the world, brother mine.- MH _

 

_ This one? -SH _

 

_ You must realize by now that the reason I did not attend John’s first wedding was because I knew you were in love with him.  I could not sit there and witness your heart breaking any further. Despite what you erroneously believe, I care about you and your happiness a great deal. - MH _

 

“Oh, who are you busy texting, Sherlock?”  Lydia tutted.

 

“Your eldest son,” he droned.

 

“Tell Mikey I’m cross with him for not coming out this weekend.”

 

_ Mother says she’s cross with you. - SH _

 

_ Please explain to Mummy that I am bogged down with protecting the realm.  Terrorists and criminals don’t take time off. - MH _

 

_ Was I right about the blackmailer being Lord Henley? - SH _

 

_ If only you could hear me sigh, brother.  Of course you were correct. - MH _

 

A smug grin spread across his face. 

 

_ Your fee has been wired to your account.  Lady Smythe added a bit extra to show her gratitude. - MH _

 

“Sherlock,” Harry popped her head through the kitchen door.  “We’ve got Molly’s dress on her.  Come see.”

 

_ Off to see my grooms-maid in her dress, brother dear. See you Tuesday morning for your suit fitting. Don’t eat anything.  I can’t bear it if you’re feeling bloated for the tailor. - SH _

 

_ Prat. - MH _

 

Lydia, Molly, Harry and Clara were in Mr. and Mrs. Holmes bedroom.  Molly ran her hands over her hips as she admired the effect in the full length mirror.  

 

“It’s not dark enough to be wine.  I’d call it mulberry,” Clara crossed her arms and stroked her chin thoughtfully.

 

“It’s a right fetching colour on you, Molly,” Harry looked over her shoulder while Lydia finished zipping her gown.  

 

“Oh, Harry, that green brings out your eyes!”  Molly exclaimed.  

 

Harry looked at her bare arms.  “When do the tartan capes arrive?”

 

“I’ve spoken to the tailor.  He’s ordered the silks and will have them ready next month.  He’s designing a cowl neck that buttons up from shoulder to neck, so you don’t have to worry about ruining your hair getting it on and off.”  Lydia posed the women before the mirror so they could admire themselves. 

 

Sherlock walked into the room without knocking.

 

“Sherlock!” his mother cried.  “What are you doing just walking in here?  We could all be nude.”

 

“Not likely mother.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“It’s been seven minutes since Harry asked me to come up to see Molly’s dress.  I knew the plan was to have Harry in her dress as well so I could see them together.  I gave ample time for her to change.  And I heard your conversation while I was climbing the stairs.”

 

Lydia lightly slapped his bicep. 

 

“Cheeky boy.”

 

The other ladies smirked.

 

“Well, Sherlock… what do you think?”  Molly spread her hands expansively.

 

He ran his gaze over the women.  Harry’s hair was a curly mess of greying blonde.  Sherlock wondered if John’s hair would be curly if he let it grow out.  She was the same height and similar build as her brother.  The wide straps on the dress complimented her broad shoulders, and the sweetheart neckline accented her ample bosom.  He could see Clara gazing appreciatively at her wife. The green of the dress matched John’s shirt, but would not clash with the green in the tartan. The lines around her eyes were less noticeable since she got sober, though the ravages of alcoholism did make her appear older than she was. The Watson tartan they chose was mostly blue.  The colours complimented the Watson siblings’ eyes.  

 

Molly had her hair pulled back in its usual ponytail.  The thinner straps and scoop neckline complimented her slender frame.  The Holmes tartan they chose was a navy base with green and some darker red.  As long as Molly didn’t wear a bright red lipstick that made her mouth look like a wound, the effect would be lovely.

 

“Sherlock?” Harry tilted her head to the right, reminding Sherlock of her brother.

 

“You both look stunning.” He said quickly. “Clearly, because I was stunned speechless.” 

 

Molly’s eyes went wide with shock at the compliment.  Lydia chortled.  “I never knew my son to compliment anyone.”

 

“They do look beautiful,” John touched Sherlock on the small of his back as he walked past, towards his sister.  

 

“Thank you, Johnny.”  Harry kissed her brother’s cheek.  “This silk is right lush.  Good taste.”

 

“Molly, you look divine,” John kissed her cheek.

 

“Thank you.” She blushed.

 

“Lydia, where is your dress?”  John asked.

 

“I was going to wait until Martha got back from her walk with Olivia.  That way we can show you at the same time.”

 

There was a noise in the hall.

 

“Come along, young Greg.  They all want to see.”

 

“I’m not sure about this, Mr. Holmes. I feel a draft.”

 

“You didn’t leave your pants on?”

 

“I didn’t think I was supposed to wear anything under this. Ugh.  It doesn’t half itch.”

 

“On the day, wear pants,” Gregory Holmes patted Lestrade on the shoulder.  

 

When they stood in the door frame, all eyes in the Holmes’ bedroom were fixed in their direction.

 

A collective “Oh,” escaped the ladies. 

 

“I don’t know about this, mate.  I mean, I am chuffed to bits that you want me to be your best man, but a kilt?”

 

John bit the corner of his lip, and nodded his head to the side.  “It’s damned sexy.”

 

“Nice legs, Greg,” Clara raised her eyebrows and grinned.

 

“I don’t know if I want anyone sexier than me on my wedding day.” Sherlock scowled.

 

“Ta, you git.” John looked at his fiancee sideways. 

 

Lestrade fussed with the jacket.  

 

“Stay still.  Let’s have a proper look,” Lydia placed his hands at his sides. 

 

The blue, green, black, yellow and red Watson tartan swished around his nervous bare knees. There wasn’t much of the green silk shirt to be seen with the vest and jacket. The Prince Charlie jacket had charcoal buttons to match the wool.  His sporran was black leather, simple, with a single silver thistle.  Charcoal hose and highly polished brogues finished off the look.  

 

With every eye in the room on him, Lestrade began to fuss at his hem.  

 

“I feel exposed.”

 

“You look great.  Really.” John reassured him.

 

“Will Mycroft be wearing a kilt, too? I don’t want to be the only one with knobby knees showing.”

 

“Oh-ho, don’t tell Mikey that he’s got knobby knees. He’ll sulk himself silly and we’ll never get him out of his room,” Lydia chuckled.

 

***

 

The late September evening was warm.  The leaves had not yet begun to turn, but the air smelled like autumn.  The outdoor brick oven held a cheerful fire.  Lestrade kept it fed from the pile of seasoned wood nearby.  Lydia held her drowsy granddaughter.  Olivia snuggled with a plush DNA molecule.

 

“Why does she only like the red one?” Clara asked her brother-in-law.  

 

John shrugged.  “Sherlock has some theory about her being more attracted to Thymine, but honestly it’s because it’s red. I think red is her favourite colour.”

 

Clara played with the other three plush molecules, putting them together and pulling them apart at their magnets. “You can get the strangest children’s toys nowadays.”

 

“Do you have any theories as to why the killer hid the tumbled malachite under the adipose that used to be the thymus?” Molly asked Sherlock conversationally.

 

“She may have had more time with this one.  Less fear of being caught.  Perhaps she is getting confident.”

 

“Do we have to talk about death?” Lydia rolled her eyes.  

 

“You have the world’s only consulting detective, a forensic pathologist, and a detective inspector around a fire in your backyard, Lydia.  They will talk shop.”  John smiled.

 

“And the world’s only doctor blogger detective,” Sherlock nodded towards his fiance.

 

“When will you call me mum, John?”  Lydia patted his knee.

 

“Grammie’s Papa’s mummy,” Olivia mumbled. “Daddy?”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

“Is Nanny Martha your mummy?”

 

The group fell silent.  Clara and Harry exchanged awkward glances. 

 

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson gasped quietly.

 

“No, love. She isn’t my mummy.  But if she was, I’d be right proud to be her son.”

 

Mrs. Hudson pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes.  Molly leaned across her chair to put her arm around her shoulders.  Martha reached up one shaky hand to the string of pearls at her throat.  They were a gift from John, a pre-wedding thank you gift.  

 

_ “This is just a little something to thank you for being mother of the groom, so to speak,” John had said when he presented the black velvet box to her earlier that day.   _

 

_ “Oh, John,” she whispered as she flipped the box open. _

 

_ “I thought they’d look pretty with your dress,” he placed them around her neck.  _

 

_ They looked into the mirror together.  “I was right.” _

 

“So do we have a better profile for this killer yet?” Greg asked as he sipped his beer. “I mean, so far we’ve got female, surgeon, bisexual, into yoga.”

 

“She feels incomplete, out of balance,” Sherlock ran his finger thoughtfully around the rim of his whiskey glass.  “She is searching for perfection. She is looking for her path to Nirvana.  She firmly believes that by killing people she feels have a single chakra in balance, and by collecting the related bones, organs and glands, that she will be able to somehow achieve the balance she can’t get on her own.”

 

“But what’s she doing with the bones and organs?” 

 

“Putting them in jars? Eating them?” Sherlock sipped his drink.

 

“Oh god,” Harry gasped.

 

“Ugh,” Clara groaned.

 

“Oh, really, Sherlock!” Lydia covered Olivia’s ears.

 

“Oh please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

John came to his defence. “You may be right.  We’re dealing with someone who is twisted enough to go to great lengths to seduce and kill four people to collect very specific body parts.  We can’t know what she wants to do with them.  Some sort of specific cannibalism isn’t totally out of the question.”

 

“Thank you, John.”  Sherlock winked.

 

“Olivia’s out cold, thank goodness. I’m going to take her upstairs.” Lydia motioned for her husband to help her stand..  

 

Gregory Holmes held his wife’s elbow as she held the sleeping child.“I’ll head in as well.  You young people take care to put out the fire?”

 

“We’ve got it , Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade raised his beer. 

 

“Oh, I quite like being referred to as ‘young people’,” Clara said.

 

“This young person needs an early night,” Harry kissed her wife.  “Coming?” 

 

“I’m going to take one of my herbals and get to bed.  Good night,” Mrs. Hudson squeezed John’s shoulder.  

 

He stood and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for today.” 

 

She pushed aside his gratitude with a hand gesture and a blush.  

 

Lestrade put another log on the fire.  Molly, John and Sherlock pulled their chairs closer.

 

“I think the killer is more than just a surgeon,” Molly offered.

 

“What do you mean?” John finished his drink.

 

“She’s precise in her incisions and osteotomy.  It’s like she wants to preserve the integrity of the body. She isn’t just pulling out the organs.  She’s systematically…  _ carefully _ disemboweling and eviscerating her victims. ”

 

“Do you think she may be a pathologist?”

 

Molly shrugged.  “I wasn’t sure when it was just sections of vertebrae that were taken.   But this last one, with the way the sternum was cut away from the ribs on the right and the left ribs were cut so neatly from the lateral torso…”

 

Her phone buzzed.  “Oh, it’s Barry,” she smiled.  “Going to call him and say goodnight.”  

 

The three men stared into the fire quietly for several minutes. 

 

“How do we narrow down yoga practicing pathologists in London?”  John broke the silence.

 

“I’m going to yoga class with Molly.”

 

***

Rain pattered against the window, the tattoo occasionally interrupted by the wind blowing it sideways.  Olivia sat in John’s lap, blonde head resting against his chest.  She enjoyed the vibration of his speaking as much as his voice.  He turned the page of her story book. 

 

“Red!” she happily pointed at the hat on the gnome. 

 

“That’s right.  A red hat.”

 

“Red hat,” she parroted.  

 

A knock on the door made them both look up.

 

“Papa can’t be back from yoga class yet.  Shall we see who that is?”

 

“Uncle Greg?” she slid out of her father’s lap and shouted towards the door. 

 

“Um… No.  Hello?  John?”  a timid female voice spoke behind the door.

 

The smile went from his eyes, as his jaw tightened.  

 

Olivia did not recognize the voice. She clutched John’s hand. “Daddy?”

 

“It’s alright, love.”  He opened the door. 

 

Margaret Watson stood on the landing.

 

His back straightened, his shoulders rolled back.  He pulled Olivia up onto his hip. 

 

“Mother.”

 

His tight, clipped voice made her chest visibly twitch. 

 

“Johnny.”

 

Olivia looked at the strange woman, then to her father.  She was not afraid, but she knew something was amiss. 

 

Her grey hair was short and swept aside from the wind outside.  Her mac dripped.  Mud spatters on her shoes and stockings showed she had perhaps paced for a while on the pavement below after getting out of the cab.  She clutched her handbag, knuckles white.  A canvas tote hung on her shoulder. 

 

Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs behind her.  

 

“John, dear, I heard the door open and I just wanted to know if Olivia had her tea yet.”

 

“Nanny!”  Olivia slid off her father’s hip, skirted the strange woman on the landing and toddled down the steps.  

 

The stunned look in Margaret’s eyes gave John pangs of simultaneous misery and victory.

 

“Ta, Mrs. Hudson.  If you don’t mind giving Olivia her tea, I’d appreciate it.  I may be busy for a bit before Sherlock gets home.”

 

Mrs. Hudson noted the tension in his body and narrowed her eyes at the woman’s back. She squeezed Olivia’s hand.  “You holler out if you need anything.”

 

John didn’t reply.  He continued to stare at his mother.  Mrs. Hudson told Olivia, in a very cheery voice, that she had fish fingers and chips for her tea.  

 

“You didn’t have to send my granddaughter away.”

 

His blue eyes hardened.

 

“Won’t you invite me in, John?” 

 

John exhaled.  He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, mouth tightly shut, as he sized up his mother.  He stood to the side. 

 

Margaret Watson stepped over the threshold, taking in as much of the busily decorated flat as she could.  Her eyes rested on an anatomy puzzle, naked baby doll and toy doctor’s bag on the coffee table. John shut the door. As she turned to face him her eyes rested on a portrait above the couch.  Against the black and white fleur de lys papered wall, between the yellow spray painted smiley face and a framed picture of a skull hung a framed photo of her son, the tall gentleman she met in January, and her granddaughter.  John wore an azure button down done up almost to his throat.  Sherlock had on a lighter blue shirt, carelessly unbuttoned to expose the angles of his collar bones.  They stood beside one another, John looking up, Sherlock looking down, faces relaxed in contended half smiles, love in their eyes.  Olivia sat on a black draped stool in front of them.  Her hands out to either side, clutching the index finger of both of her fathers.  Her dress was bright red, her royal blue tights matched the blue flower clips in her blonde curls. 

 

“Oh,” she stepped towards it. “That’s a lovely family portrait.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“When was it done?”

 

Lips pressed together in an ever tighter line, he wiggled his jaw muscles. “Last week-end.”

 

“Oh my, they can print photographs so quickly now,” she smiled.  “Where was it taken?  A studio here in London?”

 

“We were out at Sherlock’s parent’s house and they surprised us with a visit to the local portrait photographer.”

 

Margaret nodded.  She pointed to the couch.  John rolled his eyes and nodded.  She sat down, tucking her skirt behind her knees.  “Harriet told me.”

 

John’s tongue flicked out, wetting his tense lips.  “Yes.”

 

“She said you had all the wedding party out to try on their wedding clothes.  Clara took some pictures of Harriet in her dress.  She looks very pretty.  She sent them to me.”

 

John took a deep breath.  He looked up to the seam between the wall and ceiling. 

 

“I’m pleased that you and your sister have made up.  Her addiction made life difficult for us all.  And I know Clara was behind helping her get better and reconcile with the family.” She paused.  “Your father still won’t speak to her.  He doesn’t know she and Clara text me.  Probably better that way.”

 

“Is there a point to your visit, mother?”

 

Noise on the staircase indicated Sherlock was taking the steps two at at time.  He flung the door open to the flat.  Black curls slicked back with rain, his green hoodie damp at the shoulders and unzipped to show his purple lotus tee shirt.  The loose fitting black yoga pants were rolled up to below his knees. “John, I…”

 

“Sorry, Sherlock.  I know you wanted to take Olivia out for her tea today.  Mrs. Hudson is feeding her now.” John continued to stare at the wall.  “I didn’t want her to wait.”

 

Sherlock’s breath slowed.  His neck elongated, head extended forward a bit, tilted to the side.  He reminded Margaret of a bird of prey or a velociraptor in a film.

 

“Mrs. Watson,” he nodded slightly in her direction.  His senses were overloaded with this undesirable woman in his home, and the aura of anxiety emitted by his partner.  His heart pounded in his chest.  He continued to slow his breathing.  John was tense, back rigid, eyes averted, knees soft, feet apart.  

 

John turned.  The battle-ready wrinkles around his eyes eased when he saw the face of the man he loved.  Sherlock relaxed, head back in alignment, and reached out a hand.  John took it, allowing himself to be pulled into an embrace.

 

“Cor, you don’t half stink.”

 

“Hot yoga.  I’ve been sweating for an hour.  Is Olivia okay?”

 

John tipped his face upward.  “Yeah.  Yeah, she’s fine.”

 

Sherlock’s left arm stayed wrapped protectively around John’s waist.  His right hand cupped John’s cheek as he leaned in to press a quick kiss upon his lips. 

 

“Mrs. Watson,” he feigned graciously. Sherlock turned his attention back to the woman on the couch.  “I don’t hear the kettle going.  John, why don’t you put the kettle on.  I’ll sit and chat with your mother.”  He plastered on his best attempt at a friendly smile.

 

When John returned, Sherlock sat in a chair, facing Margaret, smiling pleasantly in total silence.

 

“Why are you here, mother?” John placed three mugs of tea around the mess of Oliva’s toys. 

 

“Do try not to be rude, John.” Sherlock tutted, not unlike his own mother.

 

“She arrived, unannounced, in the middle of a rainy Saturday afternoon a week after we’ve had the fitting for the wedding party.”  His voice rose to a  near shout.  

 

“John, drink your tea.” Sherlock’s voice stayed level.  “How is Wales, Mrs. Watson?”

 

She held the steaming mug in her shaking, wrinkled hands.  “It’s fine, thank you, Sherlock.”

 

“And your church choir?  The WI?”

 

She looked from John to Sherlock. “How did you know?”

 

“John told me,” he hid his smile behind his tea mug, eyes twinkled charmingly.

 

John gave him the side-eye.  

 

“Good. Good.  We’re working on our holiday fundraiser for the WI.”

 

“Knitting mittens and scarves to sell?”

 

She pressed her lips into a little smile, an attempt to hide her pleasure at his memory.  “Yes, actually.” She looked at the tote bag that leaned against her ankle.  “Did a little work on the train.”

 

“Charming.”  The silence went for two breaths more than Sherlock wanted to tolerate. “Mrs. Watson, because your son seems so reluctant to begin any sort of conversation with you about your unexpected visit, I suggest you start. Otherwise we’ll be here all night.  And I’ll start to get very cross.  My plans for the evening to take my family to Angelo’s for Olivia’s tea have been thwarted by your arrival.  I’d like to be able to reclaim the rest of my night.  Please, speak.”

 

“I…” she placed the mug on the table. “I only wanted to say that I know you’ve set your wedding date and sent out the invitations.”

 

“Something anyone who read John’s blog would know.”

 

“Harriet told me.”

 

“Thanks to Clara, Harry has been reconciled with both yourself and John.  Since we did not ask them to keep our wedding a secret, I am not at all surprised that she did.” 

 

She sighed deeply.

 

John rolled his eyes.

 

“Do get to the point, Mrs. Watson.”

 

She looked down at the mug of tea between her hands. 

 

“You came here today, all the way from Wales, to ask your son why he did not invite you and your husband to our wedding.  You did not attend his wedding to Mary.  I know.  I was his best man.  When he visited you at Christmas he thought perhaps you would be willing to reconcile as a family and accept us.  Our visit in January proved that this was not the case.  You’ve made no effort in the last nine months to reach out to John.  You have not taken the time to meet or know your only grandchild.  Who, by the way, is a bright and charming little girl and is quite the apple of the eye of the little family we’ve made for ourselves.”

 

“I…”

 

“And this is not some chance visit, Mrs. Watson.  The train from Talsarnau takes approximately six hours and six minutes.  I presume you arrived not long before I did as your shoes are not quite dry.  A taxi at this time of day from Euston Station at Kings Cross would take approximately twelve minutes.  That means you arrived at Euston at quarter past four.”

 

“How?”

 

“I was bored one night and memorized train time tables.”

 

John remained silent.  

 

“I infer by your visit that since you have secretly reconciled with your daughter, that you also want to make amends with your son.  You feel that since you have proven that you are not homophobic, that your son would love to play happy families with you.  The problem, Mrs. Watson, is that he will not.”

 

She straightened up, mouth open as if to speak.

 

Sherlock held up one finger.

 

“I know I can speak for my fiance on this matter.  We have discussed it at length.  John is not happy with the secret arrangement you have with Harry and Clara.  Keeping that information from Mr. Watson will only place a strain upon your marriage.  John refuses to be responsible for that.  Although…” he paused.  His blue-green eyes looked for further bits of information he may have missed earlier.  He sniffed the air. “Your marriage is already strained.  I only met your husband for a few minutes, but he’s boorish and overbearing, prejudiced and mean.  He holds views on life and the world that you do not share.”

 

“That’s amazing.”

 

Sherlock raised one eyebrow.  “Admiration for my deductive skills runs in your family.  It’s how I seduced your son.”

 

Margaret’s eyes went wide.

 

John slapped Sherlock’s thigh.

 

The sound of the slap echoed in the flat.  No one spoke.

 

“Where does your husband think you are today, Mrs. Watson?”

 

“There is a WI trip to see Aladdin at the Prince Edward Theatre. I left on the train with them.  We are staying overnight at The Bloomsbury Hotel and returning to Wales after luncheon tomorrow.”

 

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his jacket pocket.  The silence returned.  John sipped his tea. 

 

“I imagine you would like to not miss a bit of dinner before the show.  You’ve likely missed whatever dinner reservation you’ had with the WI ladies.  The Stockpot doesn’t need a reservation.  I imagine you can get a bite to eat there before you join your party.”  He looked at the screen. “Ah, the taxi is waiting for you downstairs.”

 

Margaret sat stunned, cup of tea between her hands. 

 

“Please don’t keep the driver waiting, Mrs. Watson.  I trust you’ll have a pleasant evening.”

 

She placed the mug with shaking hands upon the table.  She took up her knitting tote and her handbag. She paused at the door. 

 

“John, will you walk me down?”

 

The cab tooted its horn.

 

John remained silent.

 

She half sighed, half choked on a sob as she turned the knob.  

 

John and Sherlock sat in silence until they heard the cab pull away.

 

“You’re right.”  John leaned back.

 

“Of course.”  Sherlock sipped his now cold tea, scowled, and placed the mug down. 

 

“Don’t be a prat.”

 

“I love you, John.”

 

John rubbed the inside of the engagement band with his thumb.  “Shall we order in some Thai, put Olivia to bed and watch a film?”  He reached out to take his fiance’s hand.  

 

“I’d rather have an early night than a film.” 

 

***

 

Mycroft stood with his arms out.  The tailor’s yellow tape measured, the tailor’s pencil scratched on his pad.

 

“I have a case for you brother.”

 

Sherlock sat in a wing chair, one ankle crossed over one knee, fingers steepled under his chin.  “Something more interesting than blackmail?”

 

“Sadly, no.  The granddaughter of a very esteemed person has gotten herself mixed up with an unsavory crowd.  There are photos and videos.  I’ve been able to get them off of all social media platforms, but haven’t been able to secure the source.  I need the source.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Another princess bucking against the suffocating lifestyle of the monarchy.  

 

“I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

 

“Please don’t break this one’s arm.”

 

“What’s the point of Aikido if I can’t use it sometimes?” 

 

The tailor finished the jacket measurements and began on Mycroft’s inside leg. 

 

“Have you solved your serial killer yet?”

 

“You know I haven’t.”

 

“You’ve been taking yoga classes at ashrams and studios all over London. How difficult can it be, brother?”

 

“Women in tie-dyed tops and flowing trousers who chant, and match their crystal jewelry to the phase of the moon are fairly notorious for  _ not  _ being serial killers.”

 

“What does she want next?”

 

“Throat.  Someone who is well spoken.”

 

Mycroft looked at his mobile. “Or sings.”

 

“Or sings, of course.”

 

“And then she’ll move on to someone with incredible intellect.   Someone famed for it.”

 

“If I don’t catch her before her next victim.”

 

Mycroft, mobile in hand, finger poised above the screen, locked eyes with his brother. Sherlock tipped his head quizzically.  Mycroft touched the phone.  Sherlock’s mobile buzzed.

 

“I’ll see you soon, little brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://biochemies.com/dna/ a link to the plush DNA molecules
> 
> The train schedule and estimated travel times are based on actual UK train time tables and a google maps/Uber calculation from station to location at certain times of day.
> 
>  
> 
> "Is Your Love Strong Enough?"
> 
> Just one step at a time   
> And closer to destiny   
> I knew at a glance   
> There'd always be a chance for me   
> With someone I could live for   
> Nowhere I would rather be 
> 
> Is your love strong enough   
> Like a rock in the sea   
> Am I asking too much   
> Is your love strong enough? 
> 
> Just one beat of your heart   
> And stranger than fantasy   
> I knew from the start   
> It had to be the place for me   
> Someone that I would die for   
> There's no way I could ever leave 
> 
> Is your love strong enough   
> Like a rock in the sea   
> Am I asking too much   
> Is your love strong enough?


	5. Whenever I Say Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fifth victim is found, and this time the killer has gone high profile. Sherlock thinks he knows how to capture the killer. 
> 
> There is some sex, some domestic bliss, some more wedding plans, and Olivia goes trick-or-treating.

John stood outside the Belevedere Olympic Hotel. He had been on his way home from the clinic when Miller’s text arrived. White, blue and lime green police cars with their flashing blue lights filled the street. Midday traffic had been diverted to side streets. The early October afternoon was grey and bright. The lights reflected endlessly from the glass enclosed balconies and windows.  Imposing, cold and modern, the hotel reminded John of council housing.  He looked at his phone.  

 

_ Mycroft told me before I got Miller’s text. On my way. - SH _

 

Anderson, recently restored to Detective Sergeant, waited outside the barricade to greet him.

 

“Who’s the victim?”

 

“Some singer. He did a show last night at the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park.”

 

“On the first of October?  Bit late in the year for an outdoor concert, isn’t it?”

 

“He raps songs to do yoga to, or something.  Where’s Sherlock?  He may have heard of him.  Rumor has it he’s been taking yoga classes all over the city,” he said condescendingly.  

 

John narrowed his eyes at Anderson.  “Where have you been, by the way?”

 

Anderson shifted his weight from foot to foot uneasily.  He’d kept the beard he grew when Sherlock was missing.  Now it was fully grey.  His dark hair hung limply around his face, silver at the temples.  

 

D.I. Miller strode through the cars and officers, and lifted the crime scene tape.  “Welcome, Dr. Watson.  It’s been a while.”

 

“Miller, good to see you,” John shook his hand.  “Congrats on the promotion, by the way. What have we got inside?”

 

“Oi, I’m the forensic officer here.”  

 

They both looked at Anderson.  

 

“Sorry… sorry…” he mumbled.

 

Miller handed a pair of nitrile gloves to John as they walked into the hotel. “MC Bodhi, real name James Bagshaw, American singer.  Did a big show last night at the Olympic Park. People all over the green with their yoga mats. Mostly women.  Wife found him in his hotel room about ten this morning.”

 

“She wasn’t with  him?”

 

“Says they have an open marriage.  They can’t be energetically burdened with having sex with just each other.”

 

John stopped, brow wrinkled in confusion.  “Are you putting me on?”

 

Miller ran a gloved hand over his bald head.  “The wife, Janice Spinning Leaves Bagshaw…”

 

Anderson handed him a clean pair of gloves. 

 

“ _ Spinning Leaves _ ?”

 

“Murder investigations are easier when you don’t have hysterical white women who claim they are reincarnated from Indians and Native Americans trying to cleanse your aura with burning sage.”  Miller pulled the gloves off, stuffed them in his pocket, and took the clean pair from Anderson.

 

“Both Indians  _ and _ Native American Indians?”  John asked.

 

“I’m not saying I’ve heard crazier things from American women…”  Miller allowed the sentence to hang in the air.

 

Sherlock dashed through the lobby to catch them up. His dark coat billowed behind him., and reflected off the gold walls. His long legs covered the distance quickly.

 

“Holmes,” Miller nodded.

 

“Our newest Detective Inspector,” Sherlock inclined his head.  “I hope Lestrade is relaxing on his holiday in Reykjavik..  Scotland Yard’s in good hands.”

 

“Thank…”

 

“You never complimented me,” Anderson spat.

 

“You never deserved it.”  Sherlock’s gaze swept over him.  “Back from your leave already?  The Yard’s psychiatrist clear you for work?”

 

“Don’t be rude, Sherlock,” John half whispered as the lift doors closed.

 

At the top floor the doors opened to a uniformed officer standing guard. She nodded to the men as they stepped into the corridor.  The rest of the guest rooms on the floor had already been checked and cleared.  

 

“This is a paperwork nightmare,” John said under his breath.

 

“Thanks, mate.” Miller rolled his eyes. 

 

Janice Bagshaw sat in lotus pose on a pillow on the floor.  Her hotel room was across the hall from where her husband had been murdered.  Her dirty-blonde hair hung to her waist in thick dreadlocks.  A cloud of burning sage rose from the shell on the floor in front of her.  In her left palm she held a large quartz point.  The shapeless, multicoloured, sleeveless dress she wore reminded John of photos he’d seen of university students in the sixties. Slit up both sides to her thighs, the bottom of the dress was bunched up in her lap, exposing her pale legs. Dozens of beaded bracelets lined her wrists, her fingers were heavy with silver rings of turquoise, moonstone and amethyst.  

 

Miller coughed, partly from the sage smoke, partly to get her attention, as they entered. 

 

“Mrs. Bagshaw…”

 

“Oh, inspector!” she chirped with false surprise.  “Please call me Janice.” She stood in a smooth motion, beads and bangles clinking together on her arms as she extended a hand in greeting.  

  
“Um, Janice, this is Doctor Watson and his partner Sherlock Holmes.  They are investigating your husband’s murder with us.”

 

“How very kind of you, gentlemen.” Long lashes lowered over her hazel eyes.  “This is such a distressing time.  I’m so grateful for the kindness shown to me by the officers here.”

 

John shook her proffered hand.  Sherlock kept his hands in his coat pockets.  Through the haze of sage, he could smell patchouli and sandalwood in her hair.  She was lean and pale.  Vegan, kept out of the sun, had not showered in two… possibly three days.  Fingernails immaculate - short and clean.  Legs not shaved. Feet dirty from walking barefoot.  No, stained from faded henna tattoos.  Her ethereal and chirping voice was an affectation.  

 

He realized there had been an uncomfortable stretch of silent seconds.  She shook John’s hand, and now her hand hung in the air waiting for Sherlock.  He cocked his head ever so slightly, serious face melting into one of pity and slight awe.

 

“I’m so very sorry, Janice. I’m overwhelmed.  I was…  _ am _ … a huge fan of your husband’s.  I was so sad I had to miss out on the show last night.  Bodhi was _ such  _ an inspiration to my practice.”

 

Miller and Anderson stared slack-jawed. 

 

“Oh, that’s so very kind of you.  It’s not been easy. We haven’t been able to release a statement to the website yet.” She touched the outer corner of her eye to wipe away a feigned tear.

 

Sherlock gasped and placed a hand over his heart.  “You mean I’m the first fan to know?”  His bottom lip quivvered.  

 

“Missus… Janice… we need to know where you were last night and if you can remember anything more about who your husband may have been with after the concert.”  D.I. Miller took out his notepad.

 

“I’ve tried to explain to this officer,” she took Sherlock by the elbow.  “Bodhi and I have an open marriage.  You understand that, don’t you?” She fluttered her lashes up at him.

 

He patted the back of her hand. “Of course I do.  It’s the key to really making sure you are true to yourself instead of getting lost in a relationship.”

 

John’s eyebrows rose half way up his forehead. 

 

“Exactly! I’m thrilled to meet an enlightened investigator such as yourself.” 

 

Miller opened his mouth to interject, but John put out a hand to silence him.  

 

“Well, we are trying to be more open minded at Scotland Yard.  Diversity in the workplace and all.” Sherlock half whispered as he smiled at her. 

 

Janice giggled and squeezed his arm.

 

“Do you remember anything about who Bodhi took to his room last night, Janice?”

 

John swore he saw Sherlock bat his lashes at her.  

 

“Just another fan.  Plain looking girl.”

 

“Not as pretty as you, I bet.” Sherlock touched the tip of her nose with his index finger.

 

“Oh you,” she giggled again.  “I’m sure she was lovely. She was sort of average looking.  Brown hair in a pony tail.  Glitter and face paint. Some sort of green and blue swirl design around her eyes.  Taller than me,” she held up a hand to a few inches above her eyebrows.  “And I’m five-seven.”

 

“Is that all you can remember?” Miller interjected.

 

She sighed, ignored the detective and maintained eye contact with Sherlock.  “She wore a turquoise sports bra and a yellow tank with turquoise shorts and black hoodie.  She looked like every other crazed fan girl in the crowd.” 

 

“Thank you, Janice. You’ve been tremendously helpful.” Sherlock smiled at her again.  When he turned his gaze away from her, the smile fell from his face.  “Let’s go see the body.  I have a yoga class to get to tonight.  I need to find our killer.”

 

Sherlock strode out of the room.  John shook his head, grinned, and followed.  

 

***

“There is a type of new age woman who feels that in order to be taken seriously in her lifestyle choices, she needs to speak in a whispered tone.  They act as though to be in touch with the earth and whatever else they need to sound like modern faux gypsies - giving those people a bad name - with their ethereal susurrations and superior, knowing tones. And that damned laugh that sounds like glass and tin windchimes!” Sherlock threw up his hands as he paced.

 

Miller, who had never witnessed Sherlock’s acting, was still wide-eyed.  “How…”

 

“He’s good, mate,” John shook his head, still chuckling under his breath.  “Sherlock,” he called over his shoulder.   “Can you pipe down, please? Come and look at the body.”

 

“Dreadlocks!” he continued to rant.  “Do you find that offensive, Detective Inspector?”  

 

Miller raised his eyebrows, wrinkled his bald head, “As a man who had receding hairline at twenty-two, or as a black man?”

 

“Sherlock. The body.”

 

The only colour in the hotel room was the blood on the white sheets. The decor in the Belvedere was auster: shades of grey that matched the architecture, fog and sky outside.   To soften the palate heathered jersey fabric covered the wall mounted headboard, and the bedspread was quilted in a four petaled quasi floral pattern of steel coloured thread on steel coloured cotton.

 

“She is far more skilled than I gave her credit for previously.”  Sherlock bent in half to examine the nearly decapitated head. 

 

The incisions traced the underside of his jaw and down the center of his throat to the sternum.  Each layer of skin, fascia and muscle were pulled carefully back.  The pile next to this body was smaller than the previous murders, as there were not as many extra organs that needed to be moved to get to her quarry.  All that held the head to the torso was the skin of the back of the neck.  

 

“She couldn’t get C-1 or C-2, so she only took C-3 through C-7.  Thyroid is missing.”

 

“To be expected,” Sherlock commented.

 

“‘She was super careful.  Neither of the jugular veins has been nicked. You can see where she cut them.  Not enough blood on the bed.  She probably had a dish or something to catch the venous blood. Part of the trachea is missing.” John sifted through the pile of detritus, nudging bits of muscle and clotted blood with a straight teasing needle. “She knows the origin and insertion of every muscle.  Look at this.  It’s so clean.  The digastrics, omohyoid, thyroid, sternothyroid…” 

 

“You’re lost in admiration of her work, John.”

 

“I am only familiar with this level of anatomy because I’ve been studying all the muscles that she will have to cut to get her quarry from her next victim.  She must be doing the same thing.  Ah,” John stood upright. “She’s also taken the hyoid bone.”

 

“How long do you think it took her to do this?”  Miller stood between them. 

 

“This level of accuracy?  With her level of skill?  Once he was out, maybe ten hours.” John wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

 

“What time did the concert end?” 

 

Miller consulted his notes. “He got off stage around half past ten.  The time stamp on the CCTV shows him getting on the elevator at twenty-two-fifty-five.”

 

“This hotel has CCTV everywhere.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

 

“We’ve already checked all the CCTV footage.  There is a woman wearing a black hoodie in the staircase, but we can’t see her face. She was carrying a black duffle bag.  She appeared again in the hall outside this room just as the victim got to the door.  The next time any movement is seen from this room is at around eleven this morning.  She’s still wearing the hoodie, kept her head down.  There isn’t a single shot of her face in any of the footage.  The only person who claims to have seen her is Janice Bagshaw.”

 

“That’s good then, yeah?”  John took the bloody gloves and put them in the bag an officer held open for him. 

 

“Not good enough,” Sherlock used his magnifying glass as he examined MC Bodhi’s naked body.  “There is no evidence of face paint or body glitter, both of which would have come off on the victim.  She was clearly sexually intimate with him, like all her victims, prior to the Rohypnol taking effect. Look at his leg hair. She was clearly fellating him. If the woman Janice Bagshaw saw was the killer, there would be smudges of green and blue and his crotch would glitter like a disco ball.  No, the woman Janice Bagshaw  _ thinks _ her husband took to bed is not our killer. I imagine you’ll tell me next that the woman on the CCTV footage wasn’t wearing turquoise shorts, Miller.”

 

“You would be correct, Holmes.”

 

“Anderson, are you taking notes?  Detective Inspector Miller is a credit to your profession.  Learn from him and you may salvage your career.”

 

“How did she get into the hotel?”  John asked. “If you’ve already looked over the CCTV footage you would have seen her come and go, yeah? Did she use the front door?  What about footage from the street?”

 

Sherlock’s face spread into a grin.  “This, gentlemen, is why I’m marrying him.”

 

John smirked.

 

“She came in through the main hotel entrance. We have her on camera, hood up. But she didn’t leave the hotel until after twelve.  We can’t find where she was in the hotel for that hour.  And she left by an employee only door.  The alley she went down doesn’t have a camera.”

 

“Damn, Miller, you may have made a case for Sherlock to marry you instead of me.”

 

“I want CCTV footage from every possible street and store front within a mile of where that alley empties out.  And I want…”

 

“We’ll have it all in about an hour.  I requested it already.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Miller.  

 

“Let’s get a cuppa and wait then, shall we?” John steered his fiance by the elbow towards the corridor.

 

***

 

“You know the next victim is the third eye chakra.  Pineal gland.  Skull.  Brain.” John sipped his tea. The restaurant in the hotel was half full of guests.

 

“She will take the whole head.”

 

“Unless she lures the next victim to a place where she can spend the time dissecting it.”

 

“It would be faster for her to decapitate the victim, remove the brain in its entirety from the base of the skull, then dissolve all hair and skin in acid or borax to preserve the skull.”

 

“Borax would certainly keep the smell away.  But depending on what she uses, acid could be faster.”

 

An elderly woman at the nearest table looked at them in horror as she moved away.

 

Sherlock, lost in thought, ran his finger over the rim of his cup.  John knew the look of concentration and quietly checked his email on his phone.

 

“We’ve been going about this all wrong, John.  She’s not a forensic pathologist.  She’s an anatomy teacher.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Her ability to cut through every layer of muscle and fascia, her knowledge of where to cut each muscles and how not to knick arteries and veins, how to remove bones… not only is she an anatomy instructor, she teaches cadaver anatomy!”  Sherlock slapped his palms on the table.  “Oh-ho, John!  I’m closing in on her!  The game, John, is on. And I need to go to yoga class to catch myself a killer!”

 

“Settle down,” John shushed him.  “You’re making a scene.”

 

Sherlock sat back down.

 

“John, do you trust me?”

 

One eyebrow shot up, the other squinted.  “You know I do.  What’s up?”

 

“John,” Sherlock reached for John’s left hand, thumb caressed the platinum band on his second finger.  “Do you trust that when I say I love you that I mean it’s only ever been you, and it will only ever be you?”

 

“Sherlock, I’m not having second thoughts about marrying you or anything. Where is this coming from?”

 

“It’s the work.”

 

John looked up into his fiance’s eyes.  “There’s always been the work.”

 

“I can stop the killer.  I can catch her.”

 

“Brilliant. I knew…”

 

“But I need to put myself in her path.  I need to set myself up as her next victim.”

 

“You need to get her to get you into bed, you mean.”

 

“John,” he pleaded. “It’s the work.”

 

“I know.”  He cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his palm.  “I trust you.  Just tell me what the plan is so we can catch her before she drugs you and puts your head in a tub of borax, okay?”

 

Sherlock’s smile spread from ear to ear.  “Do you really think I’d let her get that far, John?”

 

“For the high?  To prove you’re right?  Yes.  I remember the cabbie.”

 

“Excellent.  Because that’s  _ exactly _ what I had in mind.”

 

***

Hours earlier Olivia had been given her peanut butter crackers before they read another adventure of Winnie the Pooh.  She had fallen asleep in John’s arms while Sherlock was doing his best Eeyore impression. She clutched her new Steffi Love ‘Kevin’ dolls.  Molly picked up blond and brunette dolls in pink and black wedding tuxedos.  Olivia called them Papa and Daddy and made them kiss.  Even as she slept on John’s lap, she held the dolls face-to-face.

 

Now, in their bed, Sherlock traced the lines of John’s scar. After his shower, John came to bed in just his lounge pants. The room was only lit by the streetlamps outside and the blue glow from John’s device.  John had recently moved from paperbacks to an e-reader.  He was devouring discounted downloads of classics when he wasn’t being distracted by Sherlock’s fingers.

 

“Did Mycroft get fitted at the tailor’s today?”

 

“Mmm-hmmm.” His index finger traced a circle around John’s pectoral.  “He was the one who told me about the MC Bodhi murder.”

 

“He’s okay with wearing a kilt to the wedding?”

 

“I imagine so.  He wore one to his first wedding.”

 

John sat up and put his reading device down. “Seriously?  Mycroft is married?”

 

Sherlock rolled onto his back. “Not currently.  He married a distant cousin who got herself pregnant by some unsavory local chap.  Mother went all out to make the affair as posh as possible.  Send a statement to the young man’s family that Portia was being taken care of by money and power, that sort of thing.  It was all over the society pages.”

 

“Dear god, I never knew.” John lay on his side.  “How long ago was this?”

 

“Nearly thirty years ago now.”

 

“How long were they married for?”

 

“They lived together for a year, for appearances sake. Then when her baby was a few months old they quietly left the country and Mycroft moved back to London. Divorce was fast and quiet. Mother and Mycroft made sure Portia and the baby were taken care of.”

 

“Portia Holmes?  She’s on the guest list.  Her and her daughter,” John reached into his memory for the emailed guest list from Lydia.  “Mychelle.”

 

“Mycroft is her legal father.  It also accounts for the ridiculous spelling of her name.”

 

“Yes… because why have normal names in the Holmes family?”

 

Sherlock glared.

 

“And he wore a kilt? Are there photos?”

 

Sherlock rolled onto his side to face his fiance. “Are you asking for photographs of my brother in kilt?” One dark eyebrow shot up in inquiry.  “I may get jealous, John.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking for photos to ogle, you git.  I just wanted to see young married Mycroft in a kilt.”  Sherlock’s eyes bored into him. “For laughs.” 

 

Sherlock ran one finger down the line John’s arm made as it lay against his ribs.  John squirmed a little.

 

“That tickles.”

 

“It’s just for laughs, John.”  He drew circles around John’s navel.

 

John laughed.  “Stop it.”

 

A mischievous glint sparkled in Sherlock’s eyes.  “I like to see you smile.”  He teased the hairs above the waistband of John’s lounge pants.  John wriggled again and suppressed a giggle  “I like to hear you laugh.”

 

John smirked.

 

“I like to hear you say my name.”  He closed the space between them, took John in his arms, and devoured his neck with hot breath and eager kisses.  

 

John moaned.

 

“Mmmm,”Sherlock hummed against his neck. He grabbed John’s backside and squeezed.

 

“Oh, Sherlock….” John’s head fell back against the pillow to allow his finace more neck to kiss and nibble. 

 

“Whenever you say my name, it sounds like a prayer.”  His voice was deep and vibrated through him.  John could feel his words.  Sherlock pressed his palm against the front of John’s pants, cupping his erection.

 

“Oh God…” John ground his hips into his fiance’s palm. 

 

“Mmmmm… there you go again.” he stretched out one finger to press between his testicles.  “Praying.”

 

“Christ… Sherlock…”

 

“You are terrible for keeping my ego in check,” Sherlock’s tongue pressed between John’s lips to explore his mouth.  John ran his fingers through the dark curls to hold him still while he hungrily kissed him.  

 

Using his hips and the power in his legs, Sherlock pushed John onto his back.  John’s fingers were still tangled in the dark curls, refusing to allow him to break their kissing.  Sherlock slid between his thighs, the silk of his pyjama bottoms gliding over the jersey of John’s. Erections pressed side by side, their hips rolled in unison.  

 

“If we don’t get naked, I’m going to make a mess of my clean pyjamas.”

 

“We can’t have that.” Sherlock moved back on his haunches.  He hooked his fingers into the waistband of John’s pyjamas and pulled them down.  He carefully lifted the elastic over his lover’s erection. It stood straight up once it was free, tip shiny with pre-come. Once the pants were down to his ankles, John kicked them off.  Sherlock gave him his mischievous lopsided grin.  “You are deliciously wanton like this.  I want to swallow you whole and drink every last drop of you.”

 

“Oh God, yes.” 

  
  


***

 

John lay sated in his arms.  Sherlock pressed his chest to John’s back, one long arm draped over a blond fuzzy thigh. His fingers traced lemniscate shapes in the soft hairs.  

 

“Are you drawing infinity symbols on me?”

 

“Mmm-hmmm.”

 

“Feeling romantic?”

 

Sherlock lay his cheek against the back of John’s shoulder.  He knew his fiance could feel the smile upon his face. “Perhaps a little.”

 

“I’m not in the surgery tomorrow.  Are we going to take that case of the alleged twins?  That woman emailed us again.”

 

“It is twins.  You email her in the morning, have her come round after breakfast.  We’ll take Olivia with us and have it wrapped up before tea time. I’ll text Miller to be ready for an arrest.”

 

John chuckled quietly.  “You once said it’s never twins.”

 

Sherlock smiled again. He placed a kiss on John’s shoulder blade.  “Indeed.”  He kept his lips half pressed to John’s back as he continued to trace infinity figures. 

 

“Sherlock?”  John shifted and rolled to face him.  “Something’s bothering you.  What’s going on in that mind palace of yours?”

 

“Just adding to the room of John Watson.  Making new files on how your skin tastes and how…”

 

“No.  No.  Do not lie to me. We’re way beyond that.  You have all the ways I taste and smell, look and feel - every inch of my skin - in files in your mind palace.  There is nothing new here. So it’s something else.  Something about the serial killer case.”

 

“My perception must be rubbing off on you.”

 

“You are worried about catching her, aren’t you?”

 

“No.  Catching her is what I am going to do.  It’s how I’m going to catch her that is bothering me.”

 

“Ah.”  John rubbed his face. “I’m not too keen on it, either.  But, we both know it’s the best way to catch her. In the act.  With her equipment.”

 

“In our bed.”

 

John scowled. 

 

“The only two victims she didn’t kill in their own beds were the chef who was cheating on her husband, and the touring musician. She would be suspicious if I suggested we take a hotel room. It has to be here.”

 

John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the framed periodic table of elements. 

 

“She knows who we are.  She will think it’s a triumph to kill the famous consulting detective in his own bed, under the nose of his partner.”

 

“Good thing she doesn’t know about Mycroft’s CCTV coverage of our flat.”

 

“I can honestly say this is only the second time I have ever been grateful of my oddly over-protective brother’s habits.”

 

“Second?  Meaning there was a first.”

 

“Olivia is the third most watched and guarded toddler in Britain.”

 

“As much of a prat as your brother can be, I will never stop being grateful to him for what he does for our daughter.”

 

***

 

Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Holmes sat on the couch in 221B, a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table before them.  Olivia sat at Mr. Holmes’ feet with her ‘Kevin’ groom dolls and the new playset he built for her. It was a bit of plywood painted to look like hardwood floor.  It had a few benches nailed in place facing a fireplace. 

 

“See here, Olivia?  This is the room where they get married.  The registrar will stand here,” Gregory stood a blonde fashion doll in a neon green mini dress against the little fireplace.  “And you will sit here between Nanny and Grandma.” He sat a curly haired toddler doll on the front bench.

 

“What about Daddy and Papa?”

 

“Ah, they will walk in from opposite sides, like this.” Mr. Holmes marched the two dolls in matching black and pink tuxedos in from opposite ends of the board. 

 

“Need more dolls,” she said matter-of-factly.  

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “You are a spoiled little creature.  You don’t need any more dolls, love.”

 

Olivia wrinkled her round nose.  “Need dolls for Nanny and Grandma and Grandpa.”

 

They all laughed.

 

“Maybe next time Grandma and I visit, we’ll bring you some new dolls.”

 

Olivia threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

 

“Oh-ho, don’t spoil her too much, Gregory.”

 

“Where would you get old dolls to look anything like us anyway?” Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea.

 

“I’ve got nothing but time, a bit of paint, and only one grandchild.  I’ll do as I please, ladies.”

 

The sitting room door was open.  Their laughter filled the hall and the stairs.  Sherlock paused to unlock the baby gate.  Long gone were the days of dashing in and out of the flat.  

 

“Papa!”

 

“Hello Sherlock, dear,” Lydia sang out. 

 

Olivia rushed into his arms, and he wrapped her in his Belstaff.  “What has my darling daughter been up to today?  Did Grandma have you do maths?”

 

“Played wedding!” 

 

Sherlock looked at the floor by the coffee table.  An assortment of dolls, clothes and the miniature tableau sat at his father’s feet.  

 

“Your father starting woodworking.  He’s made a little playset so Olivia understands what the wedding will be like.”

 

Sherlock, still holding his daughter, dropped to his haunches.  “Very nice, Dad. I didn’t know you did crafts.” He stood again, Olivia giggled at the change in altitude. 

 

“Just a new hobby, son.  Nothing special.”  Mr. Holmes blushed slightly.

 

“Nonsense.  It’s clear you spent a great deal of time on this.  Olivia, do you like your new present from Grandpa?”

 

“Yes!” she wiggled until Sherlock placed her on the floor.  

 

“Who is the one in the ghastly green dress supposed to be?”

 

“She’s the registrar.” Mrs. Hudson glanced at it sideways. 

 

“I have met Lady MacDonald and I assure you, she’d never wear that colour.”

 

John entered.  “It looks like Father Christmas came early.”  He hung his jacket.

 

“Daddy!” Olivia pawed at his trousers until he lifted her for a kiss. 

 

John lifted her under her arms to bring them face to face.  They rubbed noses and giggled.  Olivia hooked her feet around her father’s waist and snuggled against his shoulder.  

 

“I got some photos and sent them to Greg,” John gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek.  “That should help him make the arrest.  Did you get to the museum to meet with the antiquities curator?”

 

“It was an inside job.  Sharma is fingerprinting the staff now. ”

 

“Done with work for today, boys?”  Lydia placed her cup and saucer on the tray.  “We have an hour before our dinner reservation.  I’ll take Olivia up to get her changed.”  Olivia ran up the stairs ahead of her Grandmother. 

 

Sherlock stood in front of the easel, one long finger tapped against his chin.  He moved little flags with names from one circle to another. 

 

“You’ve rearranged the seating a dozen times.  Leave it alone.”  John said over his shoulder as he walked towards their bedroom.

 

Mr. Holmes stood beside his son.  “Why not have Portia and Mychelle sit with Mike Stamford?  Or that table of officers from the Met?”

 

“Are you suggesting I put my single cousin and her recently divorced daughter at a table full of single men?”

 

Gregory bounced on the balls of his feet.  He chewed at his bottom lip.  “Yep.”

 

Sherlock tilted his head to give his father a quizzical look.  He raised an eyebrow and nodded ever so slightly, before placing the paper flags of Portia and Mychelle at a table with six single men.

 

“Playing matchmaker,” Mrs. Hudson stacked the cups onto the tea tray. “I tried that for years with you boys.  Didn’t work.  You both needed to figure it out for yourselves.”

 

“He had to realize that emotions weren’t weaknesses.”  John reemerged from their room in a cranberry jumper and dark trousers.  He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. 

 

“If you’re wearing that, I should change.” Sherlock ran his palm down the front of his blue shirt.

 

“You look fine.  Don’t put on your dark red shirt.  We’ll be all matching and weird.”

 

“Angelo said we were ‘adorable’ that time we wore the same colour.”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed under her breath as she carried the tea tray to the kitchen.  

 

***

Sherlock sat in lotus pose in the middle of the sitting room.  Spread on the floor around him were photos of each of  the serial killer’s victims; crime scene shots, morgue photos and personal pictures he pulled off their various social media platforms.  Vacations, weddings, parties and selfies mixed in with the gore and surgical precision captured by the Met’s official photographers.  Mixed in to the collection were brochures from the Holdsworth on weddings, print-outs of the room reservations for guests, and a menu he and John had to review and finalize. 

 

John’s voice carried melodically through the flat.  “Let’s go show Papa how smart you look.  No, I’ll carry your bow down the stairs.  You can have it when we get outside.”

 

Oliva rushed into the room, little face flush with excitement.  She wanted to fling her arms around her Papa, but she knew not to step on the photos and papers.  She bounced in place, waiting.

 

Sherlock smiled broadly.  He swept the mess around him to one side with his hand.  With open arms, he allowed Olivia to leap into his lap and wrap around him. 

 

“I can’t see your costume this close.  Why don’t you step back so I can see?”

 

Olivia stood.  Molly had been over earlier to straighten her blonde curls.  Without her springy curls, Olivia’s hair hung to her shoulders.  Molly and John had attached some pointed tips to her tiny ears.  Her green leggings and tunic were layered on top of  two pairs of pants and two shirts.  John held a small bow and quiver of arrows.

 

“Well, aren’t you just adorable for a… umm…”  He looked frantically to John. 

 

John rolled his eyes.  “Elf,” he mouthed.

 

“An adorable elf!”  Sherlock touched the tip of her nose with his finger.

 

“Papa didn’t know,  Daddy.”

 

“I know, love. Not everyone is a fan of The Hobbit.”

 

“Silly Papa,” she sighed. 

 

“Are you ready?  Mrs. Hudson wants to take some pictures of us on the doorstep before it gets dark.”

 

Sherlock stood gracefully, swept Olivia onto his hip and kissed her cheek.  

 

“John.  What are you putting on your feet?”

 

“My costume.”

 

“They are hairy feet slippers.”

 

“Yeah. I got them online.  Hobbit feet.  I cut out the bottoms so they don’t get ruined trick-or-treating. They fit right over my trainers.”

 

“Do I have to wear a costume?”

 

“If I thought I could have gotten you into a fake beard and a pointed grey hat, you would.  But I know you better than that.  No costume for you.  This year,” he kissed Sherlock’s cheek. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the chapter is a Sting and Mary J. Blige duet
> 
> http://www.timeout.com/london/attractions/queen-elizabeth-olympic-park here is a link to to Olympic Park
> 
> "Whenever I Say Your Name"
> 
> Whenever I say your name, whenever I call to mind your face  
> Whatever bread's in my mouth, whatever the sweetest wine that I taste  
> Whenever your memory feeds my soul, whatever got broken becomes whole  
> Whenever I'm filled with doubts that we will be together
> 
> Wherever I lay me down, wherever I put my head to sleep  
> Whenever I hurt and cry, whenever I got to lie awake and weep  
> Whenever I kneel to pray, whenever I need to find a way   
> I'm calling out your name
> 
> Whenever those dark clouds hide the moon  
> Whenever this world has gotten so strange  
> I know that something's gonna change   
> Something's gonna change
> 
> Whenever I say your name, Whenever I say your name, I'm already praying, I'm already praying  
> I'm already filled with a joy that I can't explain  
> Wherever I lay me down, wherever I rest my weary head to sleep  
> Whenever I hurt and cry, whenever I got to lie awake and weep   
> Whenever I'm on the floor  
> Whatever it was that I believed before  
> Whenever I say your name, whenever I say it loud, I'm already praying
> 
> Whenever this world has got me down, whenever I shed a tear  
> Whenever the TV makes me mad, whenever I'm paralyzed with fear   
> Whenever those dark clouds fill the sky, whenever I lose the reason why  
> Whenever I'm filled with doubts that we will be together
> 
> Whenever the sun refuse to shine, whenever the skies are pouring rain  
> Whatever I lost I thought was mine whenever I close my eyes in pain  
> Whenever I kneel to pray, whenever I need to find a way  
> I'm calling out your name
> 
> Whenever this dark begins to fall  
> Whenever I'm vulnerable and small  
> Whenever I feel like I could die  
> Whenever I'm holding back the tears that I cry


	6. Thieves In The Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John set a trap. Olivia asks a pointed question.

Sherlock rolled out his blue yoga mat.  

“It’s nice to see you in class again, Sherlock.”  Molly rolled out her mat next to his.  “Have you decided this is the right class for you?”

He scanned the room, logging every face, outfit and yoga mat.  “Yes.  I have attended thirty-seven different classes around London at six different ashrams, eight yoga studios and one outdoor class at Hyde Park.  I think this is the correct class for me.”

“Wow,” she tipped her head slightly.  “That’s a lot of yoga.  I bet John’s reaping the benefits, huh?”

Sherlock turned his blue-green eyes towards her.  Molly’s neck and cheeks burned hot pink.

“I mean… um,” she stuttered.

“Indeed.”  He leaned towards her to whisper. “Is this something we should share since you’re essentially the best man at my wedding?” 

Molly’s eyes widened. “No.  No, really. I was joking. I don’t need to know. I don’t  _ want _ to know.”

Sherlock nodded slightly.  

“Is your friend Beth coming to class this evening?” He looked around the room again.

“Beth?” Molly slipped out of her hoodie.  “No, she teaches a class Tuesday nights.”

“Oh yes?” Sherlock forced himself to look perplexed and interested.  “What does she teach?”

“Tuesday evenings is cadaver anatomy.”

Barry stood in the door to the studio and waved at Molly.  He placed his shoes in the cubby. 

“Sorry I’m late.  Forgot my mat at home this morning,” he kissed her cheek.  “Hey, Sherlock.  Good to see you again.” He held out his hand.

“Barry,” he nodded.

He sighed, looked at Molly who shrugged, and dropped his hand to his side.  “Getting close to the big day, eh?  It’s what, a month til the wedding?”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted left to right, taking in the expectant faces of the couple before him.  Small talk.  Chit-chat.  Being friendly.  Tedious. “Four weeks and four days.” He looked at the clock on the wall.  “And twenty-one hours.”

“Ah. Good.” Barry wiped his hand awkwardly against his shorts. “Not counting minutes or anything.”

Molly pressed her lips together hard to suppress a smile. 

 

***

_ The killer wasn’t in class.  I’ll have to come back Thursday night. - SH _

_ The alleged killer. - JW _

_ Don’t be pedantic. It’s her. - SH _

_ Mycroft called. He has the surveillance equipment you asked for.  We need to pick it up in person. - JW _

_ Fine. I’ll ask Molly to babysit. We’ll pick it up Friday night. - SH _

_ Hurry home. Olivia wants you to read Winnie the Pooh. - JW _

_ *** _

Thursday evening Sherlock sat on his yoga mat in lotus pose.  The studio was warm, so he wore purple spandex bicycle shorts and a purple tie-dyed tee with a cartoonish sketch of Albert Einstein and Gandhi meditating side by side.

Beth saw Sherlock from the door and waived.  She scanned the room for Molly and Barry.  When she failed to locate them, she walked towards Sherlock.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Sherlock sighed. “Alright. You?”

“What wrong?  That sigh speaks volumes.”

Sherlock placed his hands on his knees. “I know we’ve only met a few times.  I hardly know you. But… can I confide in you?”

Beth sat on his mat. 

“It’s something I can’t tell Molly.  I don’t think she’d understand.”

“Oh, of course.  I’m the soul of discretion,” she placed her hand on his knee, covering his hand.  ‘What’s troubling you?”

“It’s this marriage thing. I… I’m not entirely sure that I’m gay.”  He looked up at her through his lashes, bottom lip slightly quivering. 

“Oh my.” She squeezed his hand.  “I thought you had always known you were gay.”

“I thought I was.  But I started to wonder, because you know my fiance was married to a woman, what it would be like to be with a woman once in my life.  Before I get married. What if this is all a giant mistake?  What if I am  _ bisexual _ ?”  He whispered the last word.  

Molly and Barry appeared at the door.

“I won’t say anything to Molly. I promise.” Beth squeezed his hand again. “We should get tea and chat.”

“I’d like that.  Thank you.”  He squeezed her hand back. 

***

_ Sorry we didn’t get to finish chatting after class.  - SH _

_ No worries. You still want to meet for tea sometime? - BB _

_ I would love that.  There’s a cafe near my flat.  John and Olivia will be away this weekend.  Shall we get tea after yoga on Saturday? - SH _

_ Sounds perfect.  I’ll see you in class. - BB _

***

“Alright, Miss Olivia,” Molly closed the book.  “That’s enough Curious George for one night.  It’s time to brush your teeth and go to bed.”

Olivia slid out of Molly’s lap, her slippered feet making a soft thud on the rug.  The pink and purple unicorn heads bobbled as she shuffled her feet.  As she rounded the dimly lit corridor to the bathroom, the glow in the dark stars on her astronaut pyjamas shone for a moment before she flicked on the light.

Molly followed.  She stood in the doorway and watched as Olivia moved her stool in front of the sink.  One of the unicorn heads on her slippers nudged the stool askew.  Olivia shifted it back in place.  She climbed onto the stool and reached for her tooth brush. She smiled at her aunt.

“Ready for tooth paste!”

The tube of pink toothpaste was kept on a high shelf in the medicine cabinet.  John had originally wanted to leave it out and accessible to Olivia so she could be as independent as possible with her oral hygiene. But one afternoon home alone with Papa, who took a mid-day nap after being out on a case all night, led a bored Olivia to decorate the walls with toothpaste.  

“Don’t forget the back ones.  Good.  Nice job!” Molly gave her a high five.  “Now rinse and spit.”

Olivia hummed and wiggled her way through her nightly ritual.  She presented a toothy grin for inspection.

“Well done.  Now let’s get your Daddy and Papa dolls and head up to bed.”

Olivia dashed into the sitting room to grab her dolls, then met Molly in the corridor.  With the dolls tucked under one arm, she took Molly’s hand as they went up the stairs. 

“Grandma is Papa’s mummy,” she said matter of factly.  The plush unicorn heads bobbled with each step.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And Grandpa is Papa’s daddy.” Olivia pushed open the door to her room.

“Yes,” Molly replied cautiously.

“Nanny is Daddy’s mummy.” Olivia lay her ‘Kevin’ dolls on the canopy bed Grandpa Holmes built for them.

Molly pursed her lips.  “I suppose Mrs. Hudson has become a mother figure…” she muttered.

“Are you my mummy, Auntie Molly?”

“What?”

“I don’t have a mummy.”

“Well. Um…” she stuffed her hands into the pocket of her jeans, then took them back out again. “You have two daddies.”

Olivia gave her a confused look.

“And you have Grammie and Grandpa Holmes. And Nanny Martha. And Uncle Mycroft.  And Uncle Greg…”

“No mummy.” She stood with her hands on her hips. She did not look distressed.  There was no sadness in her blue eyes.  She was methodically identifying her familial relationships.

“Every family is different, Olivia.  Some children have two mummies and no daddy.  Some have one mummy or just one daddy.”

“It’s okay not to have a mummy?”

“Yes, of course it is.” Molly heaved an audible sigh.

“Oh, okay.” She smiled and climbed into her bed.

Molly pulled the blankets up to Olivia’s chin, kissed her forehead and turned out the light.  She paused at the door to look at the child in the dim glow of her moon night light. Olivia’s eyes were already closed, blonde curls a halo smooshed into the pink pillow case, plush DNA molecules snuggled under her chin.

_ Olivia just asked me if I was her mum. - MH _

_ Oh wow! What did you tell her? - B _

_ Well, I told her I’m not.  Should I tell John and Sherlock? - MH _

_ You know them better than I do.  I don’t know any other gay parents to have a basis for comparison. - B _

Molly flopped onto the couch, phone clutched to her chest, gaze fixed at the distorted sky through the sheer panels and the London night.

The sounds of them on the stairs roused her from her reverie. 

“Hey, Molly. How was she tonight?” John hung his jacket on the peg.

“Yeah, she was great. As usual. No problems.  We read stories and played wedding with her dolls, and…” Molly swallowed.  Her gaze shifted quickly from John to Sherlock, from Sherlock to the floor, to the space between their heads.  “And we had no issues with toothpaste.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.  She was withholding something from them.  He looked at his fiance. John was smiling as he crossed the room to look at the collection of scribbles and drawings Olivia had made with Auntie Molly.  

“Good.  Aw, cute drawings.  What’s this one supposed to be?”  John tilted his head one way and the page another.

Molly laughed nervously. “She said that’s her riding a unicorn pony to your wedding.”

Sherlock stood behind John.  There was a pinkish circle with large blue spirals in the middle, topped with yellow squiggles.  Beneath it was a purple triangular shape that sat on top of a silver scribble with pastel rainbows at either end. 

“I’m not sure her obsession with rainbows is healthy.”

“I’m not sure your obsession with cadaver fingers in different acids is healthy.”

“When I was a little girl I was all about rainbows and unicorns, kittens with huge eyes.  It’s not because she’s the child of a gay couple, Sherlock.  It’s because she likes these things.”

John chuckled softly. “Those Lisa Frank stickers?”

“Yeah, those are the ones.”

“Blimey.  Every girl in my school covered their school books with them.”

“Are you both telling me this is  _ normal _ ?   _ Average _ ?   _ Common _ ?” He sneered.

“When you say it like that, Sherlock, you sound like a right prat.” John poked him in his shoulder with one finger.

“No one would ever presume a child raised in this home was normal,” Molly smiled.  “Don’t worry, Sherlock.  Even if she does turn out to be average, I’d never tell anyone.”

John laughed and walked Molly to the door.  “Thanks again, Molly.” He kissed her cheek. 

“Goodnight, John.  Goodnight, Sherlock.  Don’t despair.  Olivia the rainbow unicorn loving little girl could grow up to be a pathologist.” She winked at John as she turned away.

John turned to find Sherlock still puzzling over Olivia’s drawing.

“She can like rainbows and unicorns and still grow up to be a doctor or a chemist,” he mumbled satisfactorily under his breath.

John smiled.  He slipped one arm around Sherlock’s waist while insinuating himself against his shoulder. “She could also grow up to keep bees or develop urban farms that would eliminate childhood hunger.”

“Hmmm… bit romantic.  How about she grows up to develop a breed of honey bee that isn’t aggressive, and keeps pollination rates high, while also producing high honey yields?”

“It’s so cute when you don’t realize you’re a romantic dreamer, too.”  John stood on his toes to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.  

“Shall we install this new surveillance equipment?”

Sherlock stood in the center of the room.  “John, I feel sick.”

“What’s the matter?  Fever?  Stomach?” John felt his forehead with his wrist.  

“I’ve always been able to lie to people.  I can manipulate and get my way.  I get information by being the type of person a witness or a criminal needs to believe I am.  For a moment.  But today,” he placed a hand over his stomach.  “Today I lied to a woman to seduce her.”

“Yeah. That’s the plan.  The one we discussed.”  John noted the pained look on his fiance’s face. “It can’t be any different from when you used Janine to get close to Magnusson.”

“It’s very different.  Now I have you.  And any word I say that negates how I feel about you.  Any words I use that tell someone I am not a gay man, that I am not love with you, are like punches to my viscera.”

“Oh.” John took his hands.  “But they are just lies you are telling as part of a narrative to catch a serial killer.  I know what you’re up to. I know you’re doing this to catch a lunatic murderer.  We’re in this together.  You and me.”  

Sherlock looked unsure.

John slipped one hand up the back of Sherlock’s hair. “Let’s do what we do best.  Let’s catch a criminal. Hmm?  Then we can do what we always do after we solve a case.”

“Put the kettle on and proceed to forget about it while we shag on the kitchen table?”

“That sounds so dirty coming from your perfect mouth.”  John kissed him quickly.  “Come on, we need to get this surveillance equipment from your brother installed.”

***

Lestrade and John stood in the kitchen of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  

“Mrs. Hudson took Olivia to Sherlock’s parents’ house this morning.”

“She knows what’s going on?”

“Yeah.  She’s not happy.  Oddly I think she’d rather be here to quietly slip some cannabis or laxative into the killer’s tea.”

Greg laughed into his coffee mug. “Hudders and her herbal remedies.”

“Sharma is across the street, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade exhaled. “Look, mate, I can tell you’re tense.  Sharma is an amazing shot.  She is one of the best at the Met.  I wouldn’t let just anyone help me defend my goddaughter’s parents.”

“Ta.”  John ran his hands through his hair.  “Yeah, I’m a bit tense.”  He looked around the kitchen.  “Think Mrs. Hudson left any of her herbal soothers behind?”

***

“This place is kinda crowded.” Beth clutched her paper tea cup close to her chest, her gym bag and yoga mat over her shoulder.

“Indeed,” he took his half filled paper cup from a young detective sergeant working as a barista. Sherlock scanned the cafe.  D.I. Miller and a PC, both in street clothes, sat at a table by the door looking like a couple on a date.  Anderson sat at a tall table by himself, a stack of newspapers and a plate of half eaten sandwiches in front of him. Anthea, all legs and high heels, eyes riveted to her smartphone, picked disinterestedly at a pastry while being hit on by a woman Sherlock recognized as another of his brother’s flunkies. 

“There isn’t anywhere for us to sit quietly and chat.”  She looked up at him, eyes wide, voice thick with suggestion.

“My flat is just around the corner.” Sherlock, coffee cup in one hand, paper bag of pastries in the other, extended his elbow.  Beth grinned and slipped her hand through the space he offered.  He pressed her hand between his arm and his torso. “Shall we?”

A brisk November wind hit their faces as they left the cafe.  They were followed by the black couple that had been seated by the door.  Arm and arm, they giggled, heads together, as they crossed the street and kept a few yards behind Sherlock and Beth.  He took a sip of his coffee.

“It’s nice to see a couple so in love,” she commented. 

Sherlock sighed.  He kept his eyes on the pavement before them, but he felt her gaze shift up to his face.  He tightened his pectoral muscles as if he were holding back a sob.  Beth sighed in response.  She hid a seductive grin behind her paper cup.

As they walked past Speedy’s, Sherlock spied a familiar black car parked along the pavement a few doors down from 221. He opened the door and ushered Beth inside. He paused on the stoop to nod in the direction of the car.

 

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sherlock pointed towards the couch as he hung his coat on the peg.  He took a long swig of coffee before he placed his cup on a thick, brown cotton crocheted mat on the table between Olivia’s Paddington Bear and the current paperback John was reading.  “Would you like me to put the kettle on?  Refresh your tea, maybe? I’m going to finish my coffee.”

“Thank you, that’d be lovely.”  Beth sat demurely on the edge of the couch.  

While he was in the kitchen, Beth kicked off her boots and unzipped her fleece jumper.  She unzipped her bag, pulled out a matchbox sized container.  She carefully pulled the plastic top up and slipped in a tiny tablet. She replaced the top, swirled it about a bit.

When Sherlock returned, he caught a brief, strong whiff of his coffee, noted how closely Beth sat to the table, and the droplets of cooled coffee on the table and her finger. He forced a smile as he brought in two steaming beakers of tea. She raised her eyebrow at the two mugs.

“Changed my mind,” he lifted his left hand to indicate his mug.

Sherlock sat all the way against the cushions, head back, and sighed.

Beth shifted closer, staying on the edge of the couch, and pressed her knee against his. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He ran his long fingers through his curls.  “I’ve not had sex with many partners in my life.  I always felt I was homosexual, sapiosexual person.  The few men I was with, before John, had only ever had coitus with other men.”

She pressed her leg against his.

“Sometimes I wonder if he misses breasts.  My nipples are highly responsive. I fall into that thirty percent of men who are aroused by nipple play.  My pectorals are firm, but distinctly not breast-like.  Then I wonder what breasts feel like.  Would I enjoy touching them?  Am I missing out?”

She squeezed his knee and left her hand on his thigh.

“What if he gets bored with me? I’m the only man he’s ever been with.  Will he decide he misses sex with a woman and leave me?  Or cheat on me?  What if I like sex with a woman and I don’t even know it?”

Beth slid her hand higher up his thigh.

Sherlock knew she’d be looking for a physical response.  He flooded his mind with images of John - naked, on his knees, on his back, kissing him, mouth wrapped around his cock, greying hair sex-sweat tousled, pupils so wide with arousal his eyes looked black.  His body responded. The front of his track suit bottoms began to tent. 

She grinned. Her hand moved towards the fold of his hip and quads. Pink painted fingertips traced the wrinkles in his trousers. 

Sherlock felt his erection failing at her touch.  He imagined John’s strong, calloused fingers. He closed his eyes.  

Beth took his closed eyes as an invitation.  She leaned closer, hand off his thigh, slid up his torso.

“Your pectorals are very firm, indeed.”

He moaned, eyes still closed.  

“Would you like to feel mine?” Her voice was soft and breathy, and very close to his ear.

“Very much so,” his voice rumbled darkly.

Sherlock’s hands remained in fists at his sides, one buried between the cushions. 

The moments ticked awkwardly away as he sat completely still, eyes closed, her hand upon his chest. 

“Um… Sherlock?” she purred.  “That was a direct invitation.”

His blue-green eyes shot open.  He sat forward, nudging her aside gently with his movements. He reached for his coffee cup, allowing his fingers to caress the cooling paper, before picking up his tea instead. 

“I’m sorry, Beth,” he sipped.  “Maybe I’m not ready.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I saw evidence to the contrary.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, you are a very attractive woman.”  He placed the mug down.

“Then what’s stopping you?” One pink tipped finger traced the length of his erection. 

He allowed a groan while holding a firm image of John in his mind.  

Beth agiley climbed into his lap.  She pressed her hips down and forward, rocked against him, and arched her upper back.  Her bosom filled his vision as it rose up to meet his nose. 

“As I said, a direct invitation.” 

Sherlock kissed the swell of each breast.  He cupped them in his large hands, stroked the nipples with his thumbs.  With each undulation of her hips, he pinched her nipples harder, pulled more of her top aside.  She moaned. 

“Oh, Sherlock.  I have such plans in mind for you.” she lifted one breast to encourage him to take the nipple between his lips.  “Finish your coffee.  You’ll need the caffeine.” She winked.  His icy gaze peered through her facade, teeth and lips kept her breast captured. 

Beth reached behind her for his cup.  Sherlock pulled her towards him and covered her mouth with his.  The kiss took her by surprise.  He pushed them towards the edge of the cushion.  With her still in his lap, and one breast in his hand, he reached around her for the cup. He drank in long draughts, never taking his eyes from hers.  

“That was a bit bitter.  Horrible new barista there.”

“Let me take that taste from your mouth.”  she slid one hand down the front of her yoga pants, rubbed herself, then placed two fingers in his mouth.  The scent of her arousal filled the air.  

“You taste like mint and sex.”

“Would you like more?” hip roll, press. 

His erection was failing.  That was one of the most vile things ever placed in his mouth, and he once drank tea with an eyeball in it. 

“I think the bedroom is a better place to continue this experiment in my sexuality.”

***

“Visual confirmation,” chirped Sharma’s voice. “I can see the coffee cup. The wax seal melted and it drained onto the knit coaster as planned.”

“Did you see her put the pill in the cup?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“Surveillance, did you catch it?”

“Of course, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s bored tone purred through his earpiece.

“None of your attitude, Holmes.”

“They have moved into the bedroom, Lestrade. I still have them in my sights.”

“She left her bag in the sitting room,” Mycroft added.  

“Thank you,  Mycroft.  No one move until after Sherlock pretends to be out, and she brings the bag into the bedroom.”

***

  
  


_ John… think of John… dark blue eyes, pupils dilated with arousal… the scent of his breath after he brushes his teeth… the taste of his mouth late at night after chasing criminals - coffee and whisky… his hard cock, foreskin pulled back, tip leaking… _

“Oh, Sherlock,” Beth moaned.

_ Damned female… _

“Let me do something for you,” she breathed heavily in his ear.

_ Look aroused… look sleepy… keep eyes closed… think of John… _

Beth slipped to the floor between his legs.  She tugged him towards the edge of the bed, so his legs hung over the mattress.  She took his cock in her mouth while she cupped his balls with her left hand. 

_ Yawn… slow respiration... _

Sherlock yawned. 

“It feels so good…” he said sleepily.

“You like this?” she peered up at him, one hand around his shaft, the other still fondling his testicles.

“Mmmm…”

“Sherlock?” she whispered.

He did not respond.

She ran her fingers up and down his softening cock.  No reaction.  

Naked, she stood, hands on her waist.

“Idiot.” She said aloud.  Beth turned on her barefeet, and padded her way to the sitting room to retrieve her bag.

***

“Sherlock is asleep, sir.  She’s made her way to the sitting room.”

“Has she retrieved the bag?”

“Confirmed.  She’s also… nude.” Mycroft said the word like it was a bad taste in his mouth.

Lestrade stifled a chuckle.  “And you’ve got it all on video.  Lucky you.”

“Beta team, make your way downstairs now,” Lestrade whispered.  

The team moved quietly from Olivia’s bedroom down the stairs.

“Visual confirmation on Beta team entering the flat, sir.”

“Confirmed,” Mycroft droned.

“John, hang on…” Greg followed him out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

***

Beth kneeled in front of naked Sherlock. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. With a great deal of care, and a hum, she tied the latex tourniquet around his ankle and tapped the veins in the top of his foot. She wiped the area carefully with an alcohol pad.  Her humming was briefly interrupted by the sound of tearing plastic as she opened the catheter.  She spun the catheter hub and removed the cap.  She pressed the needle to the bulging blue vein.  The red dot from Sharma’s laser sight danced on Beth’s forehead.

“You may want to drop that syringe before his fiance gets here.”

Miller had his firearm pointed at her torso.  The officer next to him responded to conversation in his ear piece.  “We have her, sir.”  He moved forward, followed by another officer.  They grabbed her by her elbows, to have her stand before they cuffed her. 

“Doctor Elizabeth Bennet,  I am placing you under arrest.   You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”  Miller spoke into his bluetooth.  “Can we get Johnson up here to help our suspect dress, please?  

Beth hung her head. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, can you cover up please?”  Lestrade stood in the doorway.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and placed it over his lap.  

“Did she break the skin?”  John pushed past Greg.

“Only just,” Sherlock sat up to untie the tourniquet.  He showed John the drop of blood. 

“Alright, everyone out except Johnson and myself.  I’d like to bring her in fully dressed.” Miller cleared the room.  

John grabbed a dressing gown from the hook behind the door and tossed it at his fiance.

***

“Come here,” John opened his arms.

Sherlock crawled across their bed and buried his face in John’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Mmmm,” he mumbled against John’s shirt.

“I’m serious, Sherlock.  You were properly having a freak out about two days ago. We’ve spent the last twenty-four hours watching the interrogation.  And you haven’t said much.”

“I let her touch me, John.”  He didn’t move his face from John’s shoulder.

“Yes. I know. That was part of the plan.  I wasn’t happy with it, but we agreed that she had to believe you were just like all her other victims right up until her arrest.”

“Sharma saw it.  Mycroft and Lestrade have the surveillance video.”

“Yes…” John said uncertainly.  

“They saw her start to fellate me.” His voice was muffled.

“Ah.”  John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, cupped the back of his head, and pressed it forward to kiss it. “While, again, I am not happy about it, we caught her.”

“I thought about you the entire time.”

“Good.” He kissed his hair again.

“I feel…  _ dirty _ .”

“You’ve had a bath and two showers since we got back from the Yard.”

“ _ Stained _ .”

“Ah,” John crooked his finger under Sherlock’s chin and tipped his face to look at him. “Would it help if we celebrate the end of a case the way we usually do?”

“I don’t feel like putting the kettle on and shagging on the kitchen table.”

“Your chair?”

Sherlock’s smirk spread into a smile.  

“I’ll get the lube.  You pour the whisky.”

***

Miller crossed his left ankle over his right knee and settled into the chair before he took the proffered mug of coffee from John.  “Ta.”  He took a sip, then topped it off with more milk from the pitcher on the tea service.

“When we went to her flat, we found seven kitty-cornered shelves.  The bottom 5 had cleaned bones, jars of organs and things in formaldehyde, assorted crystals and stones.”

“Her collection of viscera and bones as they correlated to each chakra,” John added.

“She had a photo of Sherlock clipped out of the Times on the sixth shelf along with some blue and purple stones.  There’s a list of potential seventh victims, but it doesn’t seem that she settled on one yet.”

“Is she still cooperating?”

Miller nodded.  “She’s not denying it.  She hasn’t shown any emotion.  She just sits there and answers all questions in a monotone.  Her lawyers say they are going to try to prove she’s mentally unfit to stand trial and get her off with an insanity plea.  But the evidence points to premeditation.  She even kept a journal with details about each of her victims and why she chose them for each murder. Grisly stuff.”

“Thank you for your discretion at her arrest, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said between his steepled fingers.  Miller raised one dark eyebrow.  “You had a female officer on hand to assist her in dressing.  That was kind.”

“No need to humiliate anyone. Even if they are a serial killer.”

John sipped his tea.  “You’re coming to the wedding, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When my daughter was about 2 and a half she was busy looking at eye colours to figure out who had the same. She and I are the only blue-eyed people in our family. She also named her Ken dolls after the members of Duran Duran. I had to find dolls with hair and eye colours to match each member (including Stirling, if you're a fan and remember the Liberty album). I base a lot of Olivia's words and behaviours on my daughter and those of my nieces and nephews. At the same age my daughter, who does not know her father, was determined to figure out why some of her friends at daycare had a mom and a dad and she only had a mom. This lead to some strange conversations where she was asking my dad, my step dad, my four younger brothers and my grandfather if any of them were her dad. 
> 
> Currently my cousin and her wife have adopted 3 children. Their daughter used to ask why she couldn't have a daddy, too. My cousin's wife pretty much told her what Molly told Olivia. 
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the Prince song "Thieves In The Temple". I think of the body as a temple, and a shared bedroom as a temple to the most intimate part of a union or marriage. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! One more chapter to go!


	7. Sacred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big day has finally arrived. Not even an ice storm can stop the wedding of the year.

Sherlock struggled with a squirming Olivia while he attempted to carefully place bags on the luggage trolley. John had walked ahead to check in.  He stood at the mahogany desk chatting animatedly with a bright eyed young woman with a blonde ponytail. Sherlock coughed.

 

“Ah, there they are,” John turned his smile on full wattage when he saw Sherlock and Olivia.

 

Sherlock relaxed his shoulders.  John strolled over to take Olivia.  “I’ve got us all checked in.  And I’ve arranged for someone to collect the bags from the car.  Janet here,” he pointed over his shoulder at the blonde, “was just telling me that she and her husband got married here last month.”

 

“Doctor Watson, I can confirm that your fiance’s parents, a Martha Hudson, and a Mr. Lestrade have all checked in today.  Shall I inform you as the remainder of your wedding party arrives?”   Janet smiled at them.

 

“No need. I’ll group text the rest to let them know we’re here and what room we’re in.” 

 

“I despise a group text,” Olivia said.

 

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide. 

 

John cocked his head to the side. “She’s at an age where she will repeat things she hears, whether we want her to or not.  Be careful.” 

 

Janet smirked as she held up the room key. Sherlock took it from her with a slight nod. 

 

***

Rehearsal had to be held Thursday evening, as the registrar, Lady MacDonald, was already booked for a wedding on Friday evening.  Greg and Molly threw a joint stag party for the grooms on Friday.  They booked the bar area and rented a karaoke machine.  

 

“Karaoke?” Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

 

“It’ll be fun,” Molly smiled.

 

“Who will be attending this stag do?” John asked.

 

“Well, everyone in the wedding party and whatever guests have already checked in,” Greg began to count people on his fingers.  “Mrs. Hudson, your parents, Ruhee Sharma and her husband, Miller and his wife, a few of the blokes from the Yard that arrived today,  Harry and Clara.”

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock squinted.

 

“Ah, I don’t think so. He said he was meeting some family from the continent for a late dinner.”

 

John nodded.  “Portia emailed to say she and Mychelle would be arriving after seven from Paris and would want a quiet evening in before the wedding tomorrow.”

 

“Who will be watching Olivia?” Sherlock looked at the three of them.

 

“I brought the baby monitor.  We’ll have it with us. After she’s asleep in the locked room, she’ll be fine.” 

 

*******

Greg and Sherlock stepped away from the noise of the party.  Lestrade grabbed a bottle of ale from the bartender. “Your mum loves a party, Sherlock,” he chuckled. “This is the most original stag do I’ve ever organized.”  Lydia was singing a karaoke version of  ‘Love Will Keep Us Together’. 

 

They stood in the shadowy dining room and watched the snow fall outside.

 

“It has occurred to me that I previously underestimated your feelings for me.”

 

Lestrade’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. 

 

Sherlock kept his eyes on the snow. “Having spent my youth bullied and made fun of, I learned not to trust other children and classmates when they extended a hand in friendship.  It was not until John told me some years back that I am his best friend, that I began to realize what friendships are.  And how many I actually have.”

 

Greg extended his neck as if to listen more closely. 

 

“Alright, so I had to look it up online.  I researched it. I had to study the definition. I had to figure out what it was that made me John’s best friend. And I realized, belatedly - I  _ am _ sorry about this - that you are, and have always been, my friend.”

 

“Well, yeah, Sherlock.”

 

“I was going to ask you to be my best man.  John, who is a better man than I, got to you first.  I can’t begrudge him his choice. But I also looked at other people in my life and realized I have more friends. It would have been a bit  _ odd _ to have Mrs. Hudson be my best man.  Molly made the most sense, since I couldn’t have you. I know she had feelings for me for so long. I do feel badly about that.” He smoothed out the front of his shirt.

 

Greg took a swig of his beer. 

 

“She was there for me when I had to fall.  She kept my secrets, even from you and John.  She tended my wounds and berated me when I fell back to my less healthy habits.”

 

“Are you drunk?  You’re being all … introspective and humble.”

 

“Hmmm, humility doesn’t suit me.  Never has.  All I’m trying to say, Greg,” Sherlock turned to look him in the eye. “Is that I am glad that you are my friend and a part of my family.”

 

“I,” Greg stammered.  “I… ta… thank you, Sherlock.”  He blushed and looked out the window. “It means a lot to me that I’ve become part of your family.”

 

“I imagine since your now ex wife has remarried and taken your children to Cornwall and you don’t get to see your children very often, that you receive a certain level of familial satisfaction hanging around the flat and spending time with Olivia…”

 

Lestrade slapped his arm with the back of his hand.

 

“You are a right prat, you know that?”

 

Sherlock looked down at the rumpled sleeve with disdain, like a fly had just landed there.  “So I’ve been told.”

 

“Insensitive sometimes.  But bloody honest.  Yeah… yeah, I do get a certain level of ‘familial satisfaction’ hanging out with you and John and Olivia.” He took a long draw off his beer.  “I saw Sergeant Cawood the other day when we arrived.  She said ‘Oh, you must be Olivia’s Uncle Greg the copper.’  I’m the uncle of a famous toddler.” He grinned.

 

*******

“You know it’s only ever been you.”

 

John looked at Molly.  

 

Mr. Holmes lured his wife away from the karaoke machine with an icy glass of chablis.  As everyone politely applauded her second rendition of Captain and Tennile, John and Molly silently plotted their escape from the party with a series of eyebrow movements and slight head gestures. Molly grabbed a bottle of tequila and a shot glass from an unmanned bar as they scooted past.  Barry was going over the karaoke list with Clara and Harry and debating the merits of ‘Love Shack’. They now stood in the tea room where the wedding would be the next day.

 

“For Sherlock.  It’s only ever been you.  I mean, there was this one guy at university that he told me about.  One night we got a bit drunk, before you came along, and he told me about this one guy who didn’t think he was a freak.  They were together for a bit.  But it didn’t work out.  Took him a long time to get over it.  I knew.  I knew Sherlock was gay and it never stopped me from hoping.  Ridiculous girl that I can be.  I thought maybe he was bi. Or maybe he was really straight.  Then you came along.”

 

She sighed and tightened her ponytail. 

 

“Didn’t matter how many girlfriends you brought home.  He only had eyes for you.  He waited for you to realize it. I watched you fall in love with him and you didn’t even realize it yourself.  I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to shake you and say ‘You idiot! You love him!’. And I never did.  Then there was the fall. It was horrible, I know, John.  It killed me not to be able to tell you the truth.  Then I heard about Mary.  And when I heard you proposed to her I died a little on the inside.  She was a lot like Sherlock,  you know.  She was brilliant. She made that spark in you light up the way he did.  I thought you’d be happy.”

 

“Molly, why…”

“I may never be this drunk or this bold again, John.  I’m going to finish.” She took another shot of tequila.

 

John put his pint down.

 

“He didn’t know about Mary.  I couldn’t get in touch with him to tell him.  Mycroft didn’t tell him.  After he came back, after you punched him in the face repeatedly, he came to see me.  I was working.  I got him an ice pack and sat with him while he wept.  He  _ wept _ , John. He walked in on you about to propose to Mary and it tore his heart out. I don’t know the last time he cried before that. I don’t think I knew he could cry at all.  He’s always going on about how he’s such a high functioning sociopath,” she said the last words mockingly.  “Sociopaths don’t cry when the only man they love marries another.”

 

The bottle of tequila swung in her hand as she gesticulated. “He threw himself into helping Mary with the wedding plans.  He wanted you to be happy.   _ Your happiness _ , even if he couldn’t be responsible for it, was in his keeping.  He told me that it was like his sacred duty from that point to make sure you were happy.  That’s why he didn’t tell you it was Mary that shot him.  That’s why he went back to doing drugs and going undercover to expose Magnusson.  And that was why he didn’t tell you that he knew Mary never gave up her old ways.”

 

She peered down the neck of the bottle before taking a swig. 

 

“Why are you telling me all this, Molly?  I know all this stuff.”  John reached out to hold her hand.  Molly pulled it away and patted his shoulder. 

 

“Because last month Olivia asked me if I am her mummy.  She said Papa has a mummy. And Daddy has a mummy.  Why doesn’t she have a mummy?”  Tears flowed quick and hot down her pale cheeks.  “She’s a clever little girl, John.  She’s not quite two and a half and she has these things figured out. She’s asking questions.  She’s  _ observing _ .  She may as well be Sherlock’s for all her brilliance.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Don’t worry, I told her I’m not.  You know she does this thing where she’ll look  into my eyes and say ‘Brown eyes. Not blue eyes like Daddy and Papa.’  John, she knows about DNA.”  Molly was very earnest.

 

John chuckled.  “I’m sure she doesn’t understand at two how DNA works, Molly.  But yes, she is clever.”

 

“She’s going to keep asking questions.  Have you thought about what you’re going to tell her?”

 

John sipped his lager.  The evening had turned into a far different stag night than his previous one. 

 

_ “Put the gun down, Mary.” _

 

_ “No, John.  This is where it ends.  This is what I was hired to do.” _

 

_ “Hired? By who?  You said you left all that espionage stuff behind you.” _

 

_ “I lied.” _

 

_ “Bloody hell… Mary! We have a life.  We have a child.” He patted Olivia’s bottom through the sling.  Suddenly a bullet proof baby sling seemed the most practical thing in the world.  He thought Mycroft a bit daft when he gave it to them.   But he’d never imagined he’d be in a Mexican stand-off with his wife while he wore their daughter.  Olivia wailed. _

 

_ “She was not meant to be part of this.  I wasn’t supposed to get pregnant.  I was only supposed to get close to you and wait for Sherlock to come back.  I knew you were in love with him.  I had to become the female version of him to seduce you. It worked perfectly. I’m good at what I do. But my orders were delayed. He has to die now, John.” _

 

_ He raised the pistol.  He rolled his shoulders back.  He turned sideways, right hand cupping Olivia’s delicate ear while her right ear was pressed against his chest. _

 

_ “Over my dead body.” _

 

_ “That as well.” _

 

_ He shot before she could take the safety off her weapon. Her eyes were wide with shock.  The hole in the center of her forehead was dark, red slowly seeped to the edges.  _

 

_ Sherlock’s footfalls pounded up the steps.  He appeared like a dark angel in the door to the roof. He took in John’s stance, the blood curdling screams of the infant, the scent of gunpowder… and the figure of Mary falling backward onto the stone covered roof. _

 

_ “John?  John!” he shouted. _

 

_ His hand shook as he lowered the pistol. Sherlock ran to him.  _

 

_ “Are you alright?  What about the baby? Is she alright?” Sherlock demanded. _

 

_ “She was going to kill you. Mary was going to kill both of us.” He was in shock. _

 

_ “John, she was working for the F.S.B. She was one of Putin’s elite killers.  John!  John!”  he tried to untie the baby sling.  Olivia was gasping for air as she screamed. _

 

_ Sherlock gently extracted Olivia from the sling and cooed softly against her cheek.  She hiccuped.  Her wails became whines as she began to feel safe in familiar arms. _

 

_ John looked at Sherlock as though he had never seen him before.   _

 

_ “John…?” _

 

_ The pistol clattered to the roof.  John stood on tiptoes, left hand grasped the back of Sherlock’s neck, and pulled him down for a kiss.  Just a press of lips against lips, a longing in reach, potential to be fulfilled. _

 

_ “John?” Sherlock moaned as John pulled away. _

 

_ “She was right. Our whole marriage was a lie.  But she was right.  I’ve always been in love with you.” _

  
  


“I suppose telling her that her mother was a Russian assassin wouldn’t be good.”

 

“ _ John! _ ”

 

“Settle down, Molly, I’m joking.”  he slid an arm around her shoulders.  “Sherlock and I have already discussed it.  We’ll tell her the truth as far as we can.  Her mother died when she was a baby. And I realized I had always been in love with her Papa, so he adopted her and we got married.  End of story.”

 

“Happily ever after,” she hiccuped.

 

John smiled. “Indeed.”

 

***

The light snow that fell in the early evening dusted the gardens and buildings of the hotel like powdered sugar. Evergreens and hedgerows capped in white; sleeping, naked branches of trees balanced inches of soft powder. The wind changed and the temperatures rose slightly.  Snow briefly turned to rain. The night porter heard the patter of frozen rain against the windows.  He left the front desk to pull out the box of torches from the office.  He plugged his mobile phone in to make sure it had maximum charge. He looked over the bookings for the weekend.  A wedding. He scribbled a note on hotel stationery to the day staff.  _ Re: wedding.  In case of power outage, there are four boxes on the floor of  storage room 2. _

 

The temperatures dropped again, and the rain froze everything.  The carefully balanced snow froze upon each branch. Each bare branch, each evergreen bough drooped under the sudden weight of winter.   Branches broke with loud pops, fell heavily to the ground, and were slowly covered in ice.  Power lines snapped.  The valley slowly went dark.  

 

***

The tea-room was dark. The wind outside howled while freezing rain pelted at the windows and crackled and popped upon the hardening snow.  A figure slipped through the door, the light from a mobile phone guiding its footsteps.  It walked up the aisle between the bank of windows overlooking the garden and the chairs that were covered and decorated for the wedding.  There were two fir trees standing sentinel in the night before the cold fireplace. Upon the branches were balanced cards addressed to the grooms, and below the trees were brightly wrapped wedding gifts ‘To The Happy Couple’, ‘On Your Wedding Day’, ‘To Olivia’s Daddies’.  The figure added three more slender boxes to the pile. 

 

***

John rolled over and opened his eyes.  He should have seen the red digits of the clock shimmering the time.  The room was dark. An eerie grey light came through the window.  He reached for his phone.  4:55.  He slid out of bed, bare feet shuffled along the plush carpet, and looked out the window.  The light of the waning moon reflected off the ice hardened snow.  Halifax was dark under a wintry blanket.

 

He heard the springs in the mattress creak, so when Sherlock’s arms slid around his waist, he was not surprised. 

 

“Power’s out.”

 

“I hear a generator.  They are probably using it to maintain the heat and some vital functions until full power is restored.”

 

“What if the power isn’t back on for our wedding?”

 

Sherlock placed lingering kisses along John’s shoulder.  “I’ll marry you by the light of a dozen mobile phones in that icy garden.”

 

“And eat toast done on sticks over the fire?” John tipped his head  to the side so Sherlock’s mouth could move up his bare neck.

 

“Mmm-hmmm.  And drink whisky from shot glasses chilled in the snow.”

 

John moaned as Sherlock sucked his earlobe. 

 

“Come back to bed, John.”

 

“I thought we agreed to wait until after the ceremony,” his voice was thick with desire.

 

“This is a life-saving measure, doctor. Storm outside, Halifax without power.  We need to keep each other warm.”  

 

***

Catherine Cawood stomped the ice from her boots on the mat by the door. As she loosened her scarf, she scanned the lobby for a familiar face.  She raised a hand when she recognized John.  He whispered something to the two women he was walking with, and greeted Catherine.

 

“Sergeant Cawood, I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”  John shook her hand warmly.

 

She brushed her blonde fringe from her eyes.  “I just wanted to stop by and wish you all the best on your wedding day, doctor.  And to thank you and Mr. Holmes for solving that serial killer.  I followed all the other deaths through official channels as well as your blog.  You’re both brave men.”

 

John shrugged. “It’s what we do.”  He looked through the doors to the frozen scene outside.  “How did you get here?”

 

“Oh, I’m a country copper, Doctor Watson.  I put the chains on my SUV tires yesterday.  Need to be ready for anything.”

 

“You aren’t out in an official capacity?”

 

“No.  No…” she shook her head.  “Power is out all over the valley. I knew today is your wedding. And I wanted to make sure you blokes were all set up here.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.  So far the hotel has really stepped up.  The generator is only for keeping the heat and kitchens running.  Although I suspect if they didn’t, my future brother in law would have half the British homeland security force down here with their winter ops gear.”

 

Catherine chuckled. “I’ve heard about him.  I bet he would.  Anyway, I’m off to visit a few elderly citizens to make sure they’ve got blankets and food.  It’s good to see you,” she shook his hand again.  “Happy day, doctor.”

 

“Who was that, Johnny?” Harry asked as he rejoined them. 

 

“Sergeant Cawood, local officer.  We met her when we were up here investigating a murder in July.  She just came by to wish us the best on our day.”

 

“Wait, there was a murder here?”

 

“Yeah,” he chuckled.  “That’s why we chose this hotel.  More romantic this way.”

 

Harry slipped her arm through her brother’s elbow and laughed.

 

***

“You got the four boxes of candles out of storage room two?”

 

“Yep. We’ve got the room all set up.  And two of the wedding guests that are staying here rigged the fairy lights on the two trees to some batteries so they light up.”

 

“Ruined them for electrics.  But we told them it was alright.”

 

“Well, yeah, after that brother of the groom looked like he was going to beat you with his umbrella and not break a sweat doing it.”

 

“Who carries an umbrella inside anyway?”

 

***

Sherlock paced through the nearly empty lobby.  There was enough daylight coming through the windows and French doors that the hotel staff did not need to have too many candles lit.  The sun was going to set in about an hour and the registrar had not yet arrived.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” the clerk approached him.  “We’ve not heard anything more from the registrar since she rang to let us know she was still trapped at her house by the ice storm.”

 

The dark scowl on his face became deeper. The clerk backed away slowly, eyes wide in fear. 

 

“Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Hudson placed a hand under his elbow.  His expression softened a bit when he looked at her. 

“You need to get dressed.  Come along.  Don’t keep John waiting.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson, the registrar hasn’t arrived.” His voice was tense and high.  “There’s no point in getting dressed if there is no one here to officiate the ceremony.  My wedding is ruined by this ice storm!”

 

Her face and tone became stern. “Now you listen to me, young man.”  Sherlock looked taken aback. “Your John is upstairs right now getting ready.  He sent me down here because he has assured me that the registrar will be here and you boys are getting married today.  I’ve gotten Olivia up from her nap and now your mother is keeping her busy so she doesn’t climb the Christmas trees in the tea room.”

 

“But…” he stammered.

 

She pointed a finger under his nose.  “No. Not one more word. I’ve been waiting for this wedding for longer than you have. If John says it’s going to happen,  _ it’s going to happen. _  You march yourself right upstairs and get ready to marry that man.”

 

Sherlock stared at her.

 

“Now!” she barked.

 

As Sherlock’s lanky frame disappeared through the doors to the upper floors, an icy blast came through the front entrance.  Two women entered.  One middle aged with blonde fringe in her eyes, scarf wrapped around her face. The other a solidly built grey-haired woman in a tweed costume who reminded Martha of a country lady who spent her time riding horses and holding elegant but practical tea socials in the village.

 

“Hello,” the blonde woman addressed Mrs. Hudson as she pulled her knit cap off her head. “I’m Catherine Cawood.  This is Lady MacDonald, the registrar.”

 

Mrs. Hudson shook their hands.  “John told me you would be arriving.  Thank you so much for doing this.  It means so much to my boys.”

 

Catherine smiled.  “You must be the famous Mrs. Hudson of Baker Street.”

 

She blushed and tutted away the sentiment. “I’m just their landlady.”

 

“From what I’ve read, and what I’ve heard from Doctor Watson himself, you are the matriarch of their little family.”

 

John rushed into the lobby, turning off a torch and pocketing it. 

 

“Did you get Sherlock out of the lobby before they arrived?”

 

“Just.  He went through those doors right as they came in.”

 

John kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek.

 

“Sergeant Cawood!  Thank you so much for this.”

 

“My pleasure, doctor.”

 

“Please, John.”

 

She nodded. “Then it’s Catherine.”

 

“Lady MacDonald, thank you so much for coming out today.”

 

She handed her down anorak to the porter.  “Wouldn’t dream of missing the occasion.  I was pondering the merits and drawbacks of hooking up old Buttercup to the trap when I got your message. Then Sergeant Cawood here drove up.  I’m sure Buttercup is happier staying in her stable on a day like today. She’s a sturdy girl, but this ice may have given her a bit of a slip here and there.”

 

The registrar stood about five feet tall and eleven stone, but her personality filled the lobby.  Her smart tweed jacket and skirt were trimmed in green velvet.  A ruby studded broach in the shape of a horse’s head sat at the collar of her blouse.  Her boots were old and well worn, practical for the country and season. In her hand was a pair of sensible heels with wide toes.  Her expansive and friendly nature was obvious from her wide stance, relaxed face and smiling eyes.

 

“You’ll stay for the wedding now, won’t you, sergeant?”  John asked.

 

“I wouldn’t want to impose.  I can come back for Lady…”

 

“Nonsense!” the steely haired woman declared. “I’ll need a sober ride back to the manor after this wonderful occasion.  Christmas week wedding of the famous detectives!” A velour patched elbow nudged John in the ribs. “I’ll be ready for a celebratory tipple at the end of this day. Come along, sergeant! Let’s go check out the venue.”

 

Catherine’s eyes went wide as she was pulled into the hotel by the older woman.  Mrs. Hudson and John giggled quietly.

 

“Alright, let’s get upstairs and get dressed.  I’m getting married in less than an hour.”

  
  


***

 

“You aren’t wearing anything under your kilt, are you, Inspector?”

 

Lestrade shifted uneasily, his brogues made a squeaky sound.

 

“Your dad told me I should, but when I looked it up online, it said I shouldn’t.”

 

“Just stand with your legs apart a bit.” Mycroft straightened his back and thrust out his hips slightly.

 

“What, like a power stance?”

 

“If you like,” Mycroft’s refined voice was soft.

 

Greg sighed, planted his feet a bit further apart and took a moment to adjust to the feeling of freedom.

 

“You know, I think I am starting to see the appeal of this,” he grinned at Mycroft.

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “Perhaps after dinner and a few pints I can introduce you to a few more appealing points to kilts.” 

 

Mycroft strode away, leaving Greg with his mouth hanging open.

 

“Do close your mouth, Lestrade. It’s not a very attractive look for you.” Sherlock appeared at his elbow.

 

“I think your brother was just flirting with me,” he sputtered. 

 

“Mmmm, yes…” Sherlock nodded.  “Seems about right.”

 

“But I didn’t know your brother was gay!” he whispered.

 

“He isn’t. Not in the strictest sense.” Sherlock tugged at his shirtsleeves to make sure the cufflinks were  not snagged on the jacket.  “Labels are unnecessary, Lestrade.  Surely you’ve learned that from me and John.”

 

“But…”

 

“Some famous American bloke said ‘Love is love is love is love’ ad nauseam.”

 

Lestrade gulped and shifted his feet closer together.

 

“Don’t stand that way.  The chaffing will kill you later.”  

  
  


***

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace.  The fir trees white fairy lights were now on and twinkling, thanks to Barry, Clara, some electrician’s snips, and some batteries the hotel staff provided. The power was still out, the hum of the generator was just audible behind the string quartet.  The room was bathed in candlelight.  Across the mantle were white pilars of varying heights.  In candle sticks and tea light holders, on metallic platters and in mason jars - candles graced the brick hearth, sat in groups upon end tables and tea tables the staff gathered from around the hotel.  Envelopes addressed to the couple sat amoung the branches of the fake fir trees.  Under the branches were piles of presents in bright Christmas paper and silver wedding bell paper.  

 

Lady MacDonald stood between the Christmas trees, bouncing on her heels, looking pleased with the world as she scanned the room and every person in it. She held a black binder with the ceremony against her belly.  Lestrade and Harry stood to her right, Molly and Mycroft to her left.  The room was not full.  Most of the guests had been staying at the Holdsworth, but a few could not make it due to the storm.  

 

“Which of you lot is the best man?” she whispered loudly.  

 

“We are,” Molly and Greg said in unison.

 

“Ho-oh, I do love gay weddings.  Out with tradition!  In with what feels right, wot!” She nudged Lestrade with her velour patched elbow.

 

“We did go over this at rehearsal Thursday, right?” Molly asked Greg.

 

“Yes, yes,” Lady MacDonald answered, bouncing on her heels again. “Had a wedding last night, and my mind got muddled.  Straight couple. Lovely kids. Local.  I suspect she’s up the duff.  Not sure if it’s his!” she guffawed.  “Who has the rings, then?”

 

Molly sighed.  “I’m holding Sherlock’s ring for John.  And Greg is holding John’s ring for Sherlock.”

 

“That’s right!  Aren’t you a smart girl?” Lady MacDonald winked at her. “I remember now.  You  _ are  _ a pretty creature,” she gave an appreciative glance towards Molly’s backside.  “Here with anyone?”

 

Molly blushed until her face and chest were nearly the same shade of red as her dress.  “I’m here with my boyfriend,” she hissed. 

 

“Mmm. Right.  Oh well.” She slapped Lestrade on the shoulder.  “All the pretty ones can’t be single, eh?” 

 

“Did you want to see the rings?” Lestrade blushed and scratched his ear. 

 

From his jacket pocket he pulled a small wood box, gleaming old black oak.  Nestled inside was a single gold and platinum band. The jeweler had taken a wax cast of John’s finger print and made a matching platinum and gold band for Sherlock.  

 

Molly produced a matching box from her bouquet.  It was on a silk cord, wrapped around the stems of the evergreens and white roses.  John’s platinum engagement ring had been taken to the jeweler to have it set between two thin bands of gold.  

 

“Lovely.  Very appropriate for a pair of detectives, eh?” 

 

Greg and Molly tucked the rings safely away again.

 

The music changed.  The guests all stood.  John entered on the arm of Mrs. Hudson.  Her deep green dress swept the floor.  The Watson tartan scarf was pinned to her right shoulder  and at her left hip.  The string of pearls from John rested against her collarbone.  John glowed.  He could not stop grinning.  His shirt was barely noticeable under the tie, vest and jacket.  His kilt brushed his knees as he walked, brogues squeaking in time with the music. 

 

From the opposite side of the room Sherlock entered on Lydia’s arm.    Mr. Holmes winked at his wife as she passed.  Her ruby gown was offset by the navy and green tartan scarf crossing her torso. Sherlock held his head high.  He attempted to keep his face the picture of calm and poise, but his eyes were the gateway to his soul, and when they saw John approaching from the opposite side of the room, they sparkled.

 

Due to the storm, the hotel was under booked.  Some of the staff stood at the doors to the tea room to watch the wedding. A woman in a long black shawl and knit hooded scarf stood with the staff to observe.

 

The music slowed and stopped.  John kissed Mrs. Hudson’s cheek and escorted her to an empty seat in the front row.  Sherlock presented his cheek to his mother.  She tooks his face in her hands, tears in  her eyes, and left a large pinkish lipstick mark upon his cheek.  He silently sighed as he straightened himself.  John leaned forward and rubbed the mark with his thumb.  Lydia sat between her husband and Olivia.  Olivia had her two Steffi Love ‘Kevin’ dolls from Molly in black and pink tuxedos.  She handed the blond doll to Nanny and said “Hold Daddy for me. I need change Papa’s shoes.”

 

“Dearly beloved,” Lady MacDonald began. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love between Doctor John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

 

***

Lady MacDonald bounced on the balls of her feet.  “With the power vested in me, I happily pronounce you married.”

 

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes.  Sherlock cupped John’s face in both his hands. They had planned a brief kiss.  Nothing unseemly, nothing crass.  Just a seal upon their vows.  As Sherlock leaned down, the power came back.  Lights and electronics flared to life, the hotel was filled with the hum of modern technology and the grateful gasps and sighs of hotel staff.  John smirked and blinked his eyes at the sudden brightness.  “Snog me like you mean it, Mister Watson-Holmes.”

 

***

The hired M.C. stood at the microphone. 

 

“Pray everyone, stand for the happy couple - Doctor and Mister Watson-Holmes.”

 

The DJ pressed play.

 

John and Sherlock walked to the center of the small parquet floor.

 

_ We close our eyes and fantasize, to see what dreams will come alive. Our created energy runs through when we connect our consciousness make our love a guiding light… _ Andy Bell’s voice crooned softly.  John placed his left hand upon his husband’s shoulder.  Sherlock placed his right hand on John’s waist.  Their other hands clasped in mid-air.

 

_ And I am there in every part of you. Never feel that you’re alone. Hold on tight and I’ll be strong in spite of the things we’ve done our love is all.  Sacred… _

 

When the beat began, Sherlock led them in a disco-tinged swing dance.

 

_ We pray for love and deeper meaning holding our emotions in. Would only keep us prisoners inside _

_ We let our minds and hearts release us, pure intention sets us free. And there is nowhere left for us to hide. Never feel that you're alone. Hold on tight and I'll be strong in spite of all the things we've done _

_ Our love is all... _

 

Lydia wiped her eyes on a handkerchief Gregory handed her.  

 

“Who sings this?” Mycroft whispered to Lestrade.

 

“Erasure.  Molly picked it out for them.”

 

“The lyrics seem to fit the newly weds.”

 

“Yeah.  Oh, look at how your brother executed that sweetheart turn.  He’s quite the dancer.”

 

“Indeed,” Mycroft smiled softly. “I taught him, you know.”

 

“You dance?”

 

“Shall I show you?”

 

Greg blushed.  “Are you asking me to dance?”

 

_ Sacred like a thousand stars, Sacred when I'm in your arms. Oh you keep me safe from harm. Our love is all. This is all we ever needed. Sacred. _

 

As the synthesizers slowed, Sherlock spun John into his arms and kissed him.  Molly and Mrs. Hudson clapped and cheered.  Lydia blew her nose loudly.  Olivia made her groom dolls kiss.

 

Portia approached them.  Mycroft held out his hands and accepted her kiss upon his cheek. “Hello, Mycroft.  Gorgeous ceremony.  Sherlock looks so happy.”

 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, allow me to introduce my ex-wife, Portia Holmes.”

 

The tall, slender middle aged woman extended her hand. Sparkling indigo fabric hugged the curves and lean lines of her figure. She was as tall as Mycroft in her manolo blahniks.  Her prematurely white hair was long and swept her mid-back in soft curls. There were few lines around her eyes, her face was young. The halo of snowy hair made her appear ethereal.  Her blue-green eyes reminded Greg of Sherlock’s. Greg gaped.  

 

“Greg Lestrade, pleased to meet you.”

 

“I can see by your expression that Mycroft never told you he had been married,” she laughed, her voice musical.

 

“No, he never said anything.”

 

She sighed. “Oh, Mycroft.  So typical.” Portia fussed intimately with his tie. She turned her bright eyes upon Greg.  “Detective Inspector, perhaps you could tell me more about the officers at my table?  Two of them seem to have taken a keen interest in my daughter.”  

 

Greg looked towards the table in question.  A younger, brunette version of Portia was laughing with Sharma, her husband and two single officers.

 

“Uh, yeah. Both are solid blokes. That’s… that’s not Mycroft’s daughter, is it?”

 

Mycroft looked down his nose at Lestrade.  “Legally, yes. Biologically, no. Portia, dear, would you excuse us?  I was just asking Greg here for a dance.”

 

“You’ve never called me Greg before.”

 

“Oh, well, don’t let me stop you,” Portia winked.

 

“I’ve never asked you to dance before.”

 

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

 

“Oh, Detective Inspector, go on,” Portia grinned.  “Mycroft is a wonderful dancer.”

 

A new song started.

 

“This is a good one,” Portia cooed.

 

Mycroft extended his hand.  Greg looked from Portia to Mycroft, shrugged his shoulders and placed his hand in the proffered one.

 

“Should be interesting.”

 

Mycroft placed his hand on Greg’s hip.  Lestrade flinched slightly.  Mycroft ignored him and twined their fingers.  “Hmm. Pet Shop Boys.  ‘One In A Million’.  Who made this playlist?”

 

Greg swallowed hard. “Molly.”

 

“Swing.  I lead.  Are you ready, Greg?”

 

Barry looked over Molly’s shoulder.  “Holy crap, Greg is dancing with Mycroft.”

 

“What?”  Molly turned. “Oh my,” she laughed.  “Listen to the lyrics.” She sang along to the chorus “One in a million men could change the way you feel…”

 

Barry guffawed.  “No.  Not Greg.”

 

Molly shrugged.  “Who knows?”

 

***

Olivia tugged on Sherlock’s kilt.  “Papa!  Papa! Present for me?”

 

Sherlock crouched near the tree. “To Miss Olivia Watson-Holmes.  Yes, it is for you.”

 

“Open it?”

 

“Do you want me to open it?” 

 

“Silly, Papa.  I open it!”

 

“Yes, you may open your present.”

 

She sat by the tree and gleefully tore the shiny green paper from the box.  

 

“Letting her open early Christmas presents?” John slide an arm around his husband’s waist.

 

“It may distract her so I can have another dance with my husband,” Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s temple. 

 

“It’s laundry.”  Olivia pulled a red hand-knit scarf from the box. 

 

Sherlock laughed. “Now who is being silly?  That’s a scarf. Very lovely, too.  Let’s have a feel.  Very soft.”

 

John’s spine stiffened.  

 

“What’s the matter, John?”

 

“My mother knit that.”

 

***

Sherlock emerged from the lavatory, tugged at his cuffs and smoothed the front of his kilt.  A short woman, head covered in a black scarf, stood in the shadow by the door to the ladies.

 

“Mrs. Watson.” He said without looking at her.

 

“I won’t ask how you knew. I’ve read my Johnny’s blog.”

 

“John is already upset at the gift you left for Olivia under the tree. He suspects Harry. I spotted two more packages with the same handwriting on the tags.  I hid them for now.  I would like my wedding day to not be ruined for my husband.”

 

“Harriet doesn’t know I’m here. I left Hamish.”   
  


Sherlock turned to look at her.

 

“I left Hamish. I’ve been staying with Harriet and Clara.”

 

“Neither of them have said anything.”

 

“No, I asked them not to.”

 

“Why did you leave your husband, Mrs. Watson?”

 

She pulled the scarf off her head and twisted it in her hands.  “I love my children, Mister Holmes. It’s been too many years since I’ve hugged them.  I don’t even know who they are as adults.  Harriet, sober, is  kind and lovely.  Clara is brilliant.  I’d never met a woman electrical engineer before.”

 

“You love your children more than your husband of fifty years?”

 

“He’s a miserable man. You met him.  You know.  I don’t want to be apart from my children anymore.  I want to get to know them.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

“And you, Mister Holmes… Sherlock… if you’ll allow it. I’d like to know you.  I’d also like to get to know my granddaughter.”

 

“I will need to discuss this with John.  I can’t make this decision unilaterally.”

 

Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Oh, of course.  Communication is key in a marriage.”  She stepped forward, one hand tentatively out of her scarf.  Sherlock raised both eyebrows.  She pulled her hand back, sighed, then reached out quickly to squeeze Sherlock’s hand.  “Thank you.”  

 

***

“You didn’t tell me your mother was living with you.” Sherlock stood next to his sister in law.

 

“How did you… forget it.” She shook her head.  He always knew things. “Ah. Well, didn’t seem right to ruin your wedding.  I didn’t want to upset Johnny.” 

 

“Why is she here?”

 

“What?” Harry choked on the word.  “We didn’t bring her, Sherlock.”

 

He studied her face. “No. I know you didn’t.  But she’s here.  I just ran into her.”

 

“Damned woman,” Harriet huffed. “I told her we’d talk about this after the holidays. Seriously, Sherlock, I didn’t want her here.”

 

“I believe you, Harriet. But the fact is she is here, and she left presents for the three of us.  Olivia has already opened hers.  John recognized it as your mother’s work.  He was ready to come and scream at you, believing you delivered the present.  I convinced him not to say anything.  I suspected you wouldn’t have done that.” 

 

Harry rubbed her temples.

 

Sherlock looked from his sister in law towards the dance floor. He didn’t recognize the song, but the beat was a slow rumba.  Olivia was dancing on the feet of  Mister Holmes, Gregory bent nearly in half to hold her tiny hands.  John was dancing with Mrs. Hudson.  And Lestrade was in Mycroft’s arms.

 

“Dear God.”

 

***

“Did you see that?” John laughed quietly. He walked up to Sherlock with two glasses of wine.

 

Sherlock took the proffered glass, clinked it against John’s, and took a sip. 

 

“If I hadn’t seen it, I would never believe it when you told me.”  His face creased into a wide smile.

 

“I couldn’t tell if Greg was relieved or sad when your mother cut in to dance with Mycroft.”

 

“He appears to be having a rather intense conversation with Portia.  Knowing my cousin, she is outlining for Greg some of Mycroft’s more intimate habits.”

 

John cocked his head to the side.  “Intimate habits?  I thought their marriage was a convenience. A protection of Holmes family honour.”

 

“I mean the brand of toothpaste he prefers, and what side of the bed he keeps his alarm clock and how he makes his tea at home.”

 

John sipped his wine.  “This could be the weirdest wedding hook-up in history.”

 

***

 

Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s and whispered,  “I’ve read that it is perfectly acceptable for the newly married couple to sneak away from their reception.  I presume to have their first sexual encounter as a married couple.”

 

“I believe it is to change into their traveling clothes and leave for their honeymoon.”  John smiled and leaned into his husband.  

 

“We are staying here for our honeymoon.  So let’s go.”

 

“Olivia…”

 

“My parents are taking her to their room tonight and they will take her with them when they head home tomorrow so we have the entire week here alone.”

 

“Oh.” John smirked playfully.

 

“Come along, husband.  I have had my fill of other people.  I just want to be alone with you.”

 

The lobby was quiet.  The night receptionist was busy at his computer.  John and Sherlock waited for the elevator.  Sherlock leaned down to whisper in John’s ear.  John blushed, eyes wide, tongue flicked out to lick his lips.  Sherlock looked smug. 

 

John rested his tongue on his upper lip, lust in his eyes.  He pressed against Sherlock and was about to speak when his face went dark.

 

“John?” Sherlock turned to where John’s gaze went.

 

“Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock nodded towards her.

 

“Did you know she was here?”  John’s mouth went very thin.

 

“Johnny, please…” she stepped towards them.

 

“I can’t  _ believe  _ you’re here.  Why would you try to ruin my wedding day?  I was going to blame Harriet for bringing gifts from you, but I suppose you brought them yourself.  Well, I don’t want you here. I don’t want you anywhere near my family.”

 

“I left your father.”  Margaret Holmes straightened her spine, shoulders rolled back, bag clutched in her hands in front of her. 

 

“What?” he took half a step towards her.  Sherlock reached out for his hand.

 

“I left your father.  I don’t agree with him, Johnny.  I never have.  I decided it was time I stood up for myself and my children.  I want to be a part of your lives.”

 

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ?” John shook his head and exhaled loudly through his nose.

 

“Perhaps right now isn’t the best time for this, Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock tugged John towards him.  John did not move. 

 

The elevator doors opened.  Sherlock placed one foot in the way to hold it.

 

“I’ve always been proud of you, John,” she said quickly.  “But I’ve always been afraid of your father.  He’s a bully.  He’s a small-minded fool.  I had enough of his abuse.  I refuse to permit him to keep me away from my children any longer.  And I’m hoping you’ll allow me to get to know my new son-in-law and my granddaughter.”

 

John ran his free hand through his grey hair.  He allowed Sherlock to pull him close.

 

“Not tonight, mum.” John mumbled.

 

“No.  Of course.”  

 

Sherlock and Margaret exchanged looks. He pursed his lips and nodded.  She bowed her head and slipped back to the tea room.  

 

In the elevator, John leaned against the wall.  Sherlock stood silently beside him. John chewed his lips.  He raised his eyes to the ceiling then dropped them to the floor.  He ran his hands through his hair.  He loosened his tie.  He tugged at his kilt. He relaxed his knees, straightened into Captain Watson stance. Then he slumped his shoulders.

 

The elevator doors opened.  Sherlock stood in place, but held his arm across the door so it stayed open for his husband to pass first. John looked up into Sherlock’s concerned face.  Tears shimmered along his lashes. 

 

Sherlock nodded in silent agreement to whatever it was he saw in his husband’s blue eyes.

 

Even though they both had keys to their room, John stood in front of the door, head down.  Sherlock fished the key from his sporran.  He reached around John and opened the door. Housekeeping had turned down the bed.  Two red roses lay across the pillows.  The wedding gifts that had been under the trees in the tea room were piled on the desk.  Once they were inside and the door clicked softly shut, John sighed.  A single tear rolled from the corner of his eye down his flushed cheek. 

 

“My life I’ve only ever wanted my mother to accept me.  To love me.  My  _ whole _ life, Sherlock.  She could not love me when I went to uni or med school.  She wouldn’t see me when I joined the army.  I didn’t bother to reach out to her when I got invalided home.”

 

“She was afraid of your father. He beat her, John.  The belt he used on you and Harriet.  He used his fists on her.”

 

John’s eyes went wide.  “How did you…”

 

“The signs are there.  The way she held herself last January when we visited.  The way she stands. The way she flinches when are gruff in your speech.  I’m not telling you to forgive her. Or to let her into our lives. Not until you are ready.  But know that leaving her husband was the bravest thing that woman has ever done in her life.”

 

John sniffled.  The smile came back to his eyes.  “Come here.”

 

Sherlock stepped closer.  John ran his fingers along the lapels of his jacket.  

 

“It’s our first night as a married couple, Mister Watson-Holmes.  Make love to me like you are starving and I’m the best thing you’ve ever tasted.  Whisper dirty things to me while you make me forget my name.  And then fuck me so hard that I confuse your name with God’s.” 

 

Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hands.  He brushed his lips tentatively against his husband’s.  John pressed against him.  Sporrans knocked together.  Sherlock held John’s face, tugged at his lower lip with his teeth, and slipped his tongue into his mouth.  John ran his hands up Sherlock’s back.  Then he blindly began to fumble with the buckles on Sherlock’s sporran.  

 

“Kilts only?” John breathed suggestively.

 

“Not on your life,  Doctor Watson-Holmes.  I want you completely naked.  I’m going to make you sweat. I’m going to lick every inch of your skin.  And I’m going to make you beg for more.”

 

“Oh God, yes.”

 

***

_ Your daughter wants to have breakfast with you.  Are you done properly debauching your husband?   _

 

_ Mother, I presume this is you. - SH _

 

_ Get dressed and come down for breakfast. We have a reservation for breakfast at 8.   We’re checking out at 10.  You won’t see your daughter for a week.   _

 

John stood in the door to the en suite brushing his teeth.  “Who’s the text from?”

 

Sherlock slipped his arms into his bespoke suit jacket.  “My mother.  Our daughter is expecting us at breakfast at eight.”

 

“Good. It’s only seven-fifteen. That gives us time to open some presents.” John grinned, white foamy toothpaste covered his lips.  

 

They had received most of what they had registered for before the wedding, mostly from people who could not make the wedding. (Mike Stamford was giving his med students finals before the Christmas break.) The crock pot that John wanted arrived a week ago.  He was anxious to use it. He already put a note on it that it was  _ not _ to be used for body parts that did not come from the butcher’s or Tescos. 

 

Cards were a mix of Happy Christmas and wedding congratulations.  Some had cash, some had checks.  Some  cards were written out to Olivia congratulating her on having such wonderful dads.  Among the brightly wrapped boxes were a set of monogrammed whisky glasses from Lestrade with an intertwined W and H, and a set of coasters with skulls painted on them from Molly and Barry.  

 

Sherlock kept pushing the two flat packages from Margaret to the back of the pile.  When they were the only two left, John reached for the box in red paper.  “It doesn’t say who it’s from.”

 

“You’ll know when you open it.”

 

John pressed his lips together.  He undid the ribbon and the tape.  He shook the box open.  Inside lay the red scarf his mother had given him last year for Christmas.  The one he left behind when his father had told him he could never love his gay son. On top of the carefully folded scarf was a note.

 

_ Always my little boy.  No matter what.  I love, Johnny.  Mum _

 

“Open yours.”

 

Sherlock did not take as much care in opening his. He ripped the paper.   Inside the flat box was not a hand knit scarf.  

 

“I’m not familiar with this tartan.  It’s not the the Holmes or the Watson.”  He lifted the red tartan.  It was crossed in white with navy and dark green, three lines crossed by three lines, with large spaces of red between.

 

John’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s MacFarlane.  It’s my mother’s clan.  Her maiden name.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“There is a wedding tradition where the groom’s family presents the bride with their tartan to welcome her to the family.” John reached out to rub the soft wool between his fingertips.  

 

Sherlock handed the scarf to John.  John folded it in half, draped it around his husband’s neck, and pulled the ends through the loop.  

 

“Let’s go to breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sacred" by Erasure is a gorgeous song that just SCREAMS Johnlock to me. Most of what I listen to when I'm writing Johnlock is Erasure and Pet Shop Boys. Lots of statements in their songs about being in the closet, coming out of the closet, and wanting the world to see gay love as just love.

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter has been inspired by a song. The lyrics may or may not come into the story. If you don't know the Pet Shop Boys song "Indefinite Leave To Remain" - please check it out. 
> 
> Millions of thanks to my beta team Morgan and Crissy. And all the 'blame' for inspiring me to write ANY fanfic lays with Crissy. Love you!!
> 
> http://smokinggoatsoho.com/


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